It takes more than an hour. Eighty-five minutes, to be precise. Eighty-five minutes of Parnell getting grief from Maggie about something and crunching his mood out on the gearstick, while I fiddle with the radio, flicking between songs that all seem intent on telling us what a wonderful time of the year it is. What a fabulous time we must be having.
There’s no let-up at the Hickses’, either.
The door’s opened by Santa. A crooked, puny Santa with a rattly chest and slow laboured movements who I recognise to be Gina Hicks’ father under the synthetic beard and cheap silly hat. He ushers us into the family room where, fittingly, the whole Hicks family is congregating in picture postcard style. Gina Hicks, nailing ‘casual chic’ again in tawny beige cashmere and brown furry boots, is hanging chocolates on a tree with the elf-suited toddlers, while the man I assume to be Nate Hicks – blondish and brawny, with features just the wrong side of handsome but with the confidence not to care – throws logs and muttered curses onto a smouldering fire that refuses to catch light. On a cream Chesterfield sofa, the eldest lad, whose name escapes me, tunes a violin and quietly hums ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman’ to himself, while his sister – flat-ironed hair, must be around fourteen – records every twee middle-class moment on her glittery pink phone.
If domestic smuggery could be bottled it would smell just like this. Topnotes of gingerbread and basenotes of cloves.
It only takes two phrases to break the spell though. ‘Murder victim’ and ‘Your flat’.
I feel like we’ve walked onto a Bing Crosby film-set and pissed on the fake snow.
‘That girl was staying with Saskia?’ A stunned Gina Hicks drops to the arm of the sofa. ‘Was she a friend?’
‘What girl are they talking about, Mum?’
I clock the bouncy intrigue in the daughter’s voice and know where this is heading: Facebook.
‘Perhaps we could speak alone?’ I say.
Nate Hicks is swift to oblige, scrambling to his feet and throwing the door open. ‘Right, out, the lot of you. Amber, take the twins. Leo, go and do that elsewhere.’
There’s a whiny, monotone protest from Amber but an exodus ensues, including the ailing Santa.
‘And don’t let the twins torment Grandad,’ Gina calls after them.
As soon as their voices become distant, Parnell clears his throat. ‘It’s been alleged that the victim, Alice Lapaine, aka Maryanne Doyle, had been working as a prostitute.’
There’s a deep line across Gina’s botox-free brow, complete incomprehension in her voice. ‘And this woman was friends with Saskia? Darling, can you actually believe this?’ A quick glance to her husband and then back to us. ‘I mean, we don’t know Saskia that well on a personal level, but she’s always been a reliable tenant and I didn’t think she’d associate with—’ She catches herself, looks embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, I know I’m being judgemental and the girl’s dead, I’m just surprised that Saskia would be friends with . . .’
‘Saskia French is a prostitute,’ announces Parnell.
‘Oh my God!’ It’s barely a whisper but her eyes are open wide. Nate Hicks looks less surprised, more solemn. Like a grim-faced politician about to make a keynote speech. He walks over to the sofa and attempts to take his wife’s hand.
He doesn’t succeed. Gina’s hell-bent on resurrecting what feels like an old argument.
‘This is your bloody fault. I said we should check on the place more often, didn’t I? Well, didn’t I? Heaven knows, you’re in London enough, would it have hurt to do a spot-check now and again?’
Nate throws his hands up. ‘On what basis? You said yourself, she’s been the perfect tenant? Rent on time, never a peep. We can’t just barge in there inspecting the place on no grounds, Gina. They’re not student digs, she’s a grown woman.’
‘Are you sure about this?’ says Gina to both of us. ‘She’s been our tenant for years, absolutely no trouble . . .’
I shake my head. ‘It was obvious from the minute we got there, and Miss French didn’t exactly hide it either.’
A jubliant child’s scream carries through from the kitchen followed by the sound of the Grandad laughing. The laugh quickly gives way to a savage, hacking cough.
‘Oh God, they shouldn’t be climbing all over him. He’s got stage four lung cancer, they reckon about six to twelve months.’ She puts her head in her hands, sighs deeply. ‘God, I really don’t need this, on top of everything else.’
For all her cashmere and clove-scented domesticity, you’d have to be a robot not to feel a stab of sympathy. A sick parent is no fun. A sick parent, a prostitute tenant, and a link with a murder victim must be the absolute pits.
Nate puts his arm around his wife’s shoulders, nuzzles her head. ‘Look, darling, obviously the fact that this dead woman was in our flat is unfortunate, but in terms of Saskia, is it honestly such a big deal? Christ, remember that chap from the Camden flat? He turned out to be some sort of bogus tradesman, a complete fraudster. Saskia’s never given us any trouble whatsoever, so is it really our business how she earns her living, distasteful as it is . . .’
Gina’s head snaps up. ‘It is my bloody business if she’s turned my property into a knocking shop. You heard what they said, that dead woman was working there.’
I step in to referee. ‘If it’s any consolation, that’s not our concern. You do what you have to do with Saskia, there won’t be anything formal from our side.’ There’s a flicker of relief but it’s infinitesimal under the heavy mask of worry. ‘Mrs Hicks, you said, “my property” just now. Who exactly is the owner?’
‘It’s mine.’
Parnell takes a seat on the Chesterfield. It’s a bit low for his tastes and I see a twinge of regret as he tries to make himself comfortable. ‘Saskia gave your husband’s name,’ he says. ‘Why would that be?’
Gina scoffs. ‘Good old-fashioned sexism, I imagine. I just stay at home raising children and baking organic strudels, don’t I, darling? God forbid anyone thought I had a career of my own once. Investments of my own.’
The argument fails to ignite when the eldest son walks back into the room carrying a violin case. He gives his parents a bemused stare, as if he hasn’t seen them look anything other than wholly composed and efficient his entire life and he senses this might mark some kind of seismic sea change. One that might benefit him if he plays his cards right.
‘Not a good time, Leo,’ says Gina, massaging her forehead with her index fingers.
‘So I’m not getting a lift then?’ He looks like an estate agent although I suspect it’s a posh school’s school uniform. Sixth form, probably.
Gina gives us a look of ‘See, that’s all I’m good for.’
‘Hey, can I drive myself, Mum?’ he says, pushing his luck. ‘I’m insured on the Lexus.’
Nate Hicks pulls out his wallet, rips out two twenties. ‘Dream on. Walk up to the high street and get a cab, all right?’
‘It’s fucking brass monkeys out there.’ He snatches the money anyway.
Nate shoves him out of the door – a little rougher than horseplay to my eye. ‘Put a hat on then. And watch your bloody mouth, Leo.’ When he turns round, he’s grinning apologetically. ‘Concert this evening, St Paul’s. Sorry about the gutter language, he’s going through a geezer phase at the moment. It’s rather grating.’
Parnell smiles. ‘In this game, you meet all sorts of lads on the cusp of adulthood. Trust me, yours isn’t doing too badly if he’s playing the violin at St Paul’s and not mugging old ladies.’
Nate rubs at his jaw. ‘I know, I know. It’s just teenagers and toddlers in the same house, it gets a bit much.’
‘Been there,’ says Parnell, ‘It’s tough, especially when you’re a bit, well . . .’
A surprising laugh from Gina. ‘You can say it. A bit older. Geriatric, they call it at the hospital. A geriatric at forty-two. The cheek.’
Another smile from Parnell. ‘Same as my wife.’
There’s a silence as they wait for us to speak again. It’s clear from the way Nate is edging subtly towards the door and jiggling the change in his pockets that he thinks our work here is done.
We sit out the silence, see what it brings.
When he eventually speaks, his voice is stuttery and chummy. Middle-class charm personified. ‘So, er, obviously we’re very grateful for you letting us know, officers. Is there, er, anything else we can help with? Do you need us to sign anything with regards to taking things from the flat? Do you need keys? Would a spare set of keys help?’ A fond glance to Gina. ‘Although knowing where things are isn’t really my forté, is it, darling? Do we even have a spare set? We can certainly get some cut.’ We let him ramble, let his fawning helpfulness burn itself out. ‘Aside from that, I don’t see what more we can tell you?’
I look confused. ‘Well, with all due respect, I thought that would be obvious? I’m assuming your wife told you about our first visit?’ They nod tentatively. ‘We need to understand why a murdered woman, who was staying at a property you own, was also spotted on this road – well, at the gates to this road – and in a café just down the way on a couple of different occasions.’
I leave out the word ‘possibly’. It always spoils the fun.
Nate opens his mouth but Gina cuts in, sounding dazed. Like she’s woken up in a dream where everything’s back-to-front. ‘You think we knew this woman? I told you when you came before, I’ve never seen her before in my life.’
‘Well, yes, but you can see why we’re making the connection, surely? A witness has stated . . .’
Nate makes himself bigger, the classic macho wide-legged stance. ‘What fucking witness?’
Leo Hicks isn’t the only one going through a geezer phase, it seems.
Parnell picks up on this. ‘Could you watch your mouth please, Mr Hicks. There’s no need for gutter language. The identity of our witness doesn’t concern you.’
He doesn’t back down but shortens his stance. ‘Oh, yes it does, if you’re going to come into my house and accuse my wife of being a liar.’
‘I never said I don’t believe your wife. Maybe it’s you that recognises her?’
‘I don’t, as I told the officer who returned with the photo late last week. Not that I needed a photo, it’s been all over the news.’
A realisation dawns on Gina. ‘God, we won’t be on the news, will we? There won’t be journalists on the close? I mean, I’d love to help, I really would. It’s terrible what’s happened to that poor woman, but honestly, this is just ridiculous. We haven’t the faintest idea who she is.’
Nate looks at his wife. ‘Of course we won’t be on the news. This is wanton exploration, that’s all. There’s no credible witness. It’s what they call a fishing expedition.’
I step into his personal space but keep my tone light. ‘And under what we call the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act, we can request to see your phone records at any time, Mr Hicks. How do you feel about that?’
He gives me a thin-lipped smile. ‘Not a problem, Detective . . . I’m sorry, I forget your last name. I can get them for you now if you’d like? I’m sure I can download a fully itemised bill online. How many copies would you like?’
Parnell stands up, quicker and smoother than I’ve seen in a long time – less clicky. ‘We’ll retrieve them ourselves, Mr Hicks, if we decide we need to, but thank you.’ He nods towards Gina. ‘Thank you both for your time, we’ll see ourselves out.’
*
‘The smug fuck,’ I say. ‘“Excuse my gutter language.”’
We sit in the car on the pebbled driveway – partly just to unnerve the Hickses, partly so Parnell can have a blast of his e-cig before driving back. He’s gone for Green Tea and Menthol this time, and mixed with the quintessential blend of takeaway fried chicken and pine-scented air-freshener that always seems to hang heavy in Parnell’s car, I start to miss the scents of middle-class Christmas fairly quickly. I’d wind the window down if there wasn’t a chill outside that could bring a tear to a glass eye.
‘Could it be pure coincidence?’ I ask.
Parnell drums the steering wheel with his spare hand. ‘What, that she was living in their flat and a completely unconnected looky-likey turns up at the gates here?’ He stares through the windscreen, marvels at a grey squirrel attacking a bird feeder. ‘Could be,’ he says, eventually. ‘I’m actually part of a rare breed who believes coincidences can happen.’
I’m not sure if I am. Conspiracy out-glams coincidence by a country mile.
Still, I’m a pragmatist.
‘The kind of lawyers the Hickses can afford will get a hard-on at the word “coincidence” though, that’s our problem.’
‘Exactly,’ says Parnell. ‘So do you know what we do?’
‘Give up? Plant evidence?’
Parnell turns his body to face me, the seatbelt strains across his bulk. ‘Are you a James Bond fan, Kinsella?’
The seriousness of his tone tickles me. ‘Not really. I went through a bit of a spy phase when I was little but it was more Danger Mouse than 007. Why?’
‘But you’ve heard of Goldfinger, though? Tell me you’ve heard of Goldfinger?’
I do a little Shirley Bassey which Parnell takes to mean ‘yes’.
‘Well, after he comes across Bond for the third time, Goldfinger says – and bear with me, my Latvian accent isn’t the best. “Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action.”’
I think about this, nod sagely. ‘So we find coincidence number three, and when we do, we consider the Hickses to be the enemy.’ Parnell joins me in the sage nodding. ‘We might find it in the phone records?’
Parnell puts his e-cig down, holds up two fingers. ‘One, that wouldn’t be a coincidence, that would be us blatantly catching them out in a lie, and two, we won’t find anything, he was far too relaxed.’ Suddenly his head juts forward and he squints into the distance. ‘Although, hold up. Speak of the devil.’
I follow his line of sight and see Nate Hicks jogging towards the car. Parnell gives the accelerator a rev for pure devilment and the jog turns into a lumbering sprint.
‘What does he want?’
‘You didn’t forget your glasses again, kiddo?’ I glare at Parnell but it’s a fair question. It happens all the time; pub toilets, train journeys, witnesses’ homes. I live in fear of leaving them at a crime scene.
Parnell winds down the window. I scowl at the cold and in doing so scowl at Nate Hicks, who’s only wearing a thin rugby shirt, making him either rock-hard or panicked.
‘Can we talk?’ he says, ‘Quickly.’
I look back to the kitchen window. Gina Hicks is framed in early-evening light, nursing a cut knee as one of the toddlers sits on the sink. ‘I assume you know your wife can see you?’
‘I said I was checking you could get out the main gate. The sensor plays up occasionally so it’s not a complete lie.’
I didn’t exactly lie, I just didn’t tell the truth.
‘Hop in,’ says Parnell.
He gets in the back, looking completely incongruous. Nate Hicks strikes me as the type of guy who always likes to be at the wheel, metaphorically or otherwise, and there’s something satisfying about the sight of him scrunched up in the back of Parnell’s Citroen C4.
‘I’m sorry I was a bit aggressive back there,’ he says.
I’ve an urge to tell him he wasn’t aggressive at all, just a pompous oaf, but it’s only a thirty second drive up to the main gates so there’s not much time for small talk.
I shift around in my seat. ‘You know, if you have something to tell us about “the dead woman”, your wife is going to find out anyway, and we don’t generally take statements from the backs of cars.’
‘No, no, it’s not about her. Well, not really.’ He drags his hands through his hair, leaving it sticking out at all angles in small fuzzy tufts. ‘God, this is all so embarrassing. I swear I don’t know who this Alice/Maryanne, woman is. Really, I don’t.’ He pauses. ‘But I do know what Saskia is. I’ve known for a while now. By pure accident. Despite what my wife thinks, I do listen sometimes and I did check in on the flat . . .’ It’s paining him to go further.
Parnell let’s out a knowing ‘Ah’ and pulls up on a verge, a little to the side of the main gate. A BMW squeezes through and the female driver gives a confused wave to Nate Hicks. He looks mortified which makes me toasty warm inside.
‘So you’ve known your tenant is a prostitute for a while?’ I say, acting like I’m just getting it all straight in my head. ‘But you didn’t see fit to tell your wife?’
It’s obvious where this is heading but it’s fun watching him squirm.
‘No, I didn’t. I couldn’t, we . . . I don’t know how it . . . I’ve never done anything . . .’
Parnell hasn’t got time for bluster, he’s got the twins’ carol concert tonight. ‘Shall I help you, Mr Hicks? You had sex with Saskia French, yes?’
He looks at us both, all hunched-up shoulders and hangdog eyes. In his stripy rugby top and cheeks reddened by the cold – or shame – he resembles an overgrown schoolboy. I turn back to the front to hide my disdain.
‘Was it a financial arrangement?’ asks Parnell.
‘The first couple of times and then it became more of a, well, a thing.’
‘A thing?’
He coughs, awkwardly. ‘More of a relationship. An affair. In her mind anyway. I wanted to cool things.’
I undo my seatbelt, swivel a whole 180 so I can face him fully again. ‘And why are you telling us this?’
It’s not a pointed question. I’m genuinely confused. You see, to a Murder Detective, everything is relevant. Every hazy-eyed anecdote, every inconsequential detail, all the way down to what brand of cereal the victim liked to eat at the weekend could prove to be the shiny gold nugget that leads to a break. But to a shyster like Nate Hicks, who clearly has a rather flexible relationship with the truth, everything he reveals is on a strictly need-to-know basis. And I’m not quite understanding why he thinks we need to know this.
I get my answer, for what it’s worth.
‘I’m just trying to make sense of this dead woman thing.’
Parnell shoots me a sideways glance. ‘Aren’t we all, Mr Hicks? So any information you have, let’s hear it.’
‘Well, it’s not really information, as such.’ He shuffles to the middle of the back seat, sits forward, head parked between me and Parnell like a boulder. ‘I suppose you’d call it more a hypothesis . . .’