Amber, the teenage daughter, answers the door, sullen-faced and red-eyed. She jerks a thumb towards the family room then tiptoes quickly up the stairs, hunched and uninterested, eager to get back to the sanctuary of her bedroom.
There’s a definite frost in the air. A bleakness that can’t be masked by lavish decorations and cosy festive scents. It’s there in the quietness of the house, the unnatural stillness. The sheer distance between them as they occupy the same space – Gina Hicks sitting stiffly on the window seat, scrolling through her iPad, Nate by the opposite wall, idly browsing The Times. Instantly, I’m thrust back to the countless days when Mum and Dad would skulk around each other, brooding and wallowing in whatever argument had caught light the night before. Just the occasional slammed door slicing through the pained, loaded silence. Me, Jacqui and Noel quietly going about whatever business we’d have usually executed at ear-shattering volume.
The atmosphere is obvious.
Gina knows about Nate’s affair.
However, it’s amazing what a police caution can do to reconcile a couple. The words seem to bond them as they move in sync from the far corners of room to the sofa, side by side, hand in hand, looking for all the world like a staged royal photo.
While I get my notepad out, Parnell explains why we’re here. Explains why he had to caution them in as reassuring tones as possible. ‘We have to cover ourselves, you see? Just in case you have information that can help us.’ Gina barely reacts, her thousand-yard-stare suggests this is just one more punch in the gut and she’s getting used to it. She also must be the only person in the world who appears to have lost weight over Christmas. A grey silk vest sags lightly over her birdlike frame.
‘I appreciate this isn’t an ideal time,’ says Parnell, playing nice, hoping to keep all thoughts of legal representation out of their heads for as long as possible.
‘We haven’t made plans,’ replies Gina. ‘We rarely go out on New Year’s Eve. It’s all a big con, isn’t it? Venues charging through the nose for sub-standard food and entertainment. Taxis are a nightmare . . .’
Hear hear.
‘We’re worried for Saskia French’s safety,’ says Parnell, all earnest eyes and open hands. ‘She’s been out of contact for some time now and we believe she may have left her flat in a hurry. Can I ask if either of you have heard from her?’
Gina drops her husband’s hand.
Parnell directs the question. ‘Mr Hicks? Has Saskia been in touch lately?’
Everything about Nate’s body language screams tough guy – the balled fists, the clenched jaw, the taut, raised shoulders.
‘No, she hasn’t,’ he hisses.
Parnell keeps needling. ‘Any ideas where she might have gone then? Places that are special to her? Close friends? Did you ever discuss this type of thing?’
He doesn’t answer, just emits small angry breaths from his nose.
‘I’ll take that as a no,’ says Parnell. ‘And you Mrs Hicks?’
She stiffens, regally poised. ‘No, I haven’t heard from her.’
Looking up from my notepad, I wince slightly, as though the piece of information I’m about to share pains me as much as them. ‘Your son, Leo, has been identified as a man who was heard arguing with Saskia on Christmas Eve morning. We naturally need to speak to you – and him – about this.’
I’m surprised by the calmness in my voice, the professionalism. I feel anything but.
A blast of confused laughter from Nate. ‘Leo? Arguing with Saskia?’
I nod. ‘I think “raised voices” was the actual term.’
‘I wasn’t debating the nature of the altercation, Detective Kinsella.’ The smug fuck is back. ‘I was suggesting there was no altercation at all. Your witness must be mistaken.’ He laughs again to himself. ‘Bloody ludicrous.’
Gina grips Nate’s thigh, quietens him. ‘I’m afraid you won’t be able to speak with Leo. He’s away for a few days, playing at a concert in Vienna. He’s a very talented violinist – and pianist, of course.’
Of course.
She raises her chin. ‘However, I can tell you I sent Leo to Saskia’s flat to deliver an eviction notice.’ Nate shifts, struggling to keep his surprise in check. ‘He mentioned they’d had words, Saskia can be a little fiery, shall we say, but that’s all it was – words. The walls in those flats are so bloody thin, every conversation sounds like raised voices.’
‘You sent a teenager to deliver a legal letter?’ Parnell doesn’t hold back on the parental judgement.
Nate cuts in. ‘Leo’s at that age where he wants to feel part of the family business. We’ve been giving him more responsibility.’
‘And what exactly is the family business?’ asks Parnell, starting to enjoy himself. ‘I’m aware you have a number of non-executive directorships, Mr Hicks, and you own a chain of beauty salons . . .’
‘Nail bars, actually.’ He tries to sound blasé but I can tell his feathers are ruffled. No one likes having their background checked.
‘My apologies, nail bars,’ says Parnell. ‘But assuming you don’t do the filing and polishing yourself, what is it that you do on a daily basis?’
‘Property development and management,’ he says, vaguely. ‘Here and overseas.’
‘Property development and management.’ Parnell pretends to look impressed.
I’m not actually sure where Parnell’s going with this. In fact, I’m not altogether sure it’s not just a spontaneous pissing contest.
I pull the conversation back to Gina and Leo.
‘I’m sorry, Gina, you say you got Leo to deliver the eviction notice?’ She nods. ‘But you were in town yourself on Christmas Eve morning. You came into the station, remember?’ Another surprised shift from Nate Hicks. ‘Why didn’t you deliver it yourself? Our station is less than a mile from Saskia’s flat?’
She bristles. ‘Because I had no desire to come face to face with Saskia French, that’s why. Leo was going into town anyway, skating with friends, so I asked him to drop it in.’ She looks at me, disappointed. Like I’ve somehow betrayed her confidence. Betrayed the sisterhood. ‘And as you’ve pointed out, I came into the station, I had last-minute shopping to do. I wouldn’t have had time to go to King’s Cross too.’
Nate frowns. ‘Darling, why did you visit the sta—’
She silences him again with another thigh-grip. ‘I’m sorry Leo’s visit seems to have caused an issue, Detectives. If I’d known Saskia would be there, I wouldn’t have asked him to do it. She often goes away at Christmas so I thought what harm would it do, Leo shoving a note through the letterbox?’
I tap my notepad with my pen. ‘Hold on, you said you feared coming face to face with Saskia. Now you say you didn’t expect her to be there anyway?’
A pinched smile. ‘I just didn’t want to risk it.’
‘Why?’ asks Parnell. ‘Why didn’t you want to risk coming face to face with Saskia French?’
Nate shrinks into himself, his pallor whiter than the marble fireplace.
Gina lowers her eyes. ‘I believe you already know the answer to that question, Detective. I don’t know why you feel the need to humiliate me in my own home.’
‘Can we see the eviction letter, Gina. Take a copy?’ I say it softly, in a way that suggests I’m trying to help, trying to divert things away from her husband’s indiscretion but if anything she looks more uncomfortable.
‘I didn’t make a copy. I just filled it out quickly and pressed print. Sorry.’
I shrug, note this down. ‘Not to worry, we’ll assume it’s in Saskia’s flat somewhere. Our Forensics team should turn it up.’
Stony-faced, she says, ‘I’m actually very sorry to hear Saskia might be in danger. I wouldn’t wish that anyone, despite everything, but I don’t see what more we can do.’
Parnell doesn’t bow to the pious act. ‘What you can do, Mrs Hicks, is have your son return on the next flight for questioning.’
A hand to her chest. ‘That sounds rather extreme!’
‘Not at all. As far as we’re aware, Leo was the last person seen with Saskia French. You must understand that we need to speak with him.’
Nate appeals to Parnell. ‘Look, mate, do you have sons?’ The ‘mate’ sounds ridiculous. Plummy and contrived.
‘Four,’ says Parnell.
‘Gosh.’ ‘Gosh’ suits him better than ‘mate’. ‘Well then, you’ll know that young lads love playing the big man. That’s all Leo was doing, I’m sure of it.’ He gives Gina a fond – some might say condescending – smile. ‘You really should have judged that better, darling, but honestly, Detectives, there’s really nothing we – or Leo – can tell you.’
He’s either brave or stupid – lecturing his wife on her judgement when he’s been sweating up the sheets with their prostitute tenant.
‘We’d rather hear that from Leo, all the same,’ says Parnell.
Nate’s eyes dart. He’s looking for an escape route. ‘Well, actually, there’s a problem with the flights apparently. Storms and strong winds of up to a hundred kilometres an hour across northern Austria, we’re led to believe. The forecast isn’t looking great either so God knows when Leo will get back. How about a Skype chat?’ He looks pleased with this suggestion. ‘Although I suspect reception won’t be great. We haven’t heard from him since Monday, not that that’s unusual with teenage boys. We’ll try to arrange something in the next day or two, does that work?’
Parnell bites back a smile – I mean, Nate Hicks’ arrogance is pretty amusing.
Deciding it’s time to hit them with something tangible, Parnell takes out his phone and starts tapping the screen, doing his bumbly Luddite act, muttering ‘bloody technology’ under his breath.
Nate looks bemused but Gina senses something serious is in the offing. I sit back and watch the rapid rise and fall of her bony chest
Eventually, Parnell leans forward, offering his phone.
‘This is a photo of Saskia French pictured with Maryanne Doyle, or we can call her Alice Lapaine for argument’s sake. Would you both take a look and tell me if you agree.’
Nate studies the photo, making it bigger, then smaller, with the ease of a man who spends his life on his smartphone. ‘Well, it’s certainly Saskia, a much younger Saskia. I don’t know the other woman, other than the photos I’ve seen in the media and the one you showed me, so I wouldn’t be able to say with absolute certainty that it is her.’
Gina takes the phone, holds it with both hands, frowning. ‘They both look a lot different but yes, I’d say that’s Saskia and Alice.’
I put my pad down, stare at her intently. ‘So bearing in mind you’ve agreed that this is Saskia and “Alice” pictured many, many years ago, we have to ask, Gina, is it true that you only met “Alice” four years ago?’ She says nothing. I soften my tone, see if that works. ‘Come on, you have to admit, it’s just seems too coincidental that the woman you claim you met on a random IVF forum four years ago turns out to be a long-time friend of one of your long-term tenants?’
I shouldn’t have used the word ‘coincidental’. It gives her an out, no matter how poor an out it is. She hands the phone back to Parnell, bolder now. ‘It must be, as you say, a coincidence. There’s no other explanation.’
‘Oh, I think there is, Mrs Hicks.’ Parnell’s voice is thick with warning. ‘What would you say if we told you that this photo, which we’re putting at around 1999, maybe 2000, was taken in your King’s Cross flat. Do you see why this makes it very hard for us to believe what you’re saying?’
Nate sighs irritably. ‘Gina didn’t own the flat then so this really is pointless. Tiresome, even.’
‘Honestly, I don’t know what to tell you,’ she says, sounding desperate. It could be an act but the frown-line, once deep, is now cavernous. ‘This just isn’t making any sense. We got the flat in 2005, Saskia French was a sitting tenant who came with excellent references . . .’
Nate takes her hand. ‘I’ve explained this to them, darling, they just don’t want to listen. Perhaps we should call Felix?’
No guesses for who Felix is.
Parnell powers on and I don’t blame him. ‘Perhaps we should . . .’ isn’t the same as ‘I demand to see . . .’ but we’ve probably got a matter of minutes at most.
‘Mr and Mrs Hicks, a murdered woman, who you’ – a point to Gina – ‘have at least admitted knowing, is pictured many years ago in a flat that you now just happen to own. Now I’ll be honest with you, I don’t know what you’re lying about but I know you’re lying. A woman is dead and she’s continually being linked to your King’s Cross flat.’
‘Did you hear what my wife said? We didn’t buy the property until . . .’
I’m sick of the sound of his voice. I don’t know how Gina sticks it. ‘From who?’ I say, sharply. ‘Who did you buy the flat from? And it will only take us ten minutes to find out so do yourselves a favour . . .’
‘From me.’
A voice from the doorway. Frail but commanding.
The grandad.
He of the Santa beard and stage four cancer.
‘Well, Gina didn’t buy it from me, of course. I transferred it over to her.’ A quick chuckle. ‘I got it off Lenny Spoons in the Seventies, if you’re interested. Didn’t buy it, I won it in a poker bet. They were good times, back then. Lawless.’
Gina jumps up, moves towards him, arms outstretched. ‘Dad . . . please . . . don’t . . . we’ve got this . . . don’t say anything else.’
Parnell stands up, astounded, mouth gaping like a fish. I glance from one to the other, waiting to be put in the picture, but they just eyeball each other, locked in their own private reunion. There’s a hint of a grin on Parnell’s face. ‘Mr Mackie, it’s been a very long time,’ he says eventually. ‘Did the craving for a decent cup of tea finally get to you? Or is it the weather that tempted you back?’
The old man laughs. ‘Tell you the truth, it’s that copper sense of humour I missed the most. The Cuerpo Nacional de Policía take themselves far too seriously. Bit of a mouthful, ain’t it? La Pasma tends to do. Means “the cops”, “the pigs”, y’know?’
Parnell turns to Gina Hicks whose face is the colour of glue. ‘OK, I think it’s time we swapped places, people. You all need to come to our place and our guys need to move into yours. Oh, and Mr Hicks.’ Nate Hicks has his head in his hands but at the sound of his name, he looks up. ‘I’m arresting you both for assisting an offender, and quite possibly for perverting the course of justice, so I think you might be right – perhaps it is time you called Felix.’
It turns out Felix Whiteley is a bit more partial to a New Year knees-up than Nate and Gina Hicks and when they do finally get hold of him, two hours later, he’s already halfway to the New Forest where he and his good lady wife are attending a seven-course dinner and a ‘Masquerade Ball’.
Whatever that may be.
Of course, he agrees to turn round and come charging back up the M3, however with warnings of a jack-knifed lorry just before Basingstoke, he really can’t say what time he’ll be able to join our little NYE soiree, which leaves the Hickses contemplating life in a holding cell and Patrick Mackie with the police surgeon. Word is, he’ll be deemed fit to be detained as long as he’s kept under regular observation.
Steele’s appeal for information on Saskia’s whereabouts went out a short while ago. I’m not sure how many people actually watch the six o’clock news on New Year’s Eve – most people have started the final blow-out by then, I suspect – but we’ve all agreed to stay in the office on stand-by, manning the phones and ready to leap into action if required.
Someone’s ordered in pizza but for once I don’t feel hungry. Parnell’s in his element though, regaling the team over slices of deep-pan Hawaiian.
‘Patrick Mackie. Quite the face when I was a wet-behind-the-ears-bobby.’
Ben can’t help himself, grabbing a clutch of fake snow from the base of the Christmas tree and sticking it in front of his chin. ‘Here, Boss, do you recognise me in this cunning disguise?’
To be fair, Parnell takes it in good humour. It’s not every day you overlook one of the UK’s Most Wanted because they were dressed like Father Christmas.
‘In my defence,’ he says, ‘Mackie answered the door once and I saw him for all of two seconds and as you’ve pointed out, I could hardly see his face. Them pair’ – a point towards me and Emily – ‘had a whole bloody conversation with him.’
‘We’ve never heard of him though,’ Emily protests. ‘We can’t be expected to recognise every criminal who’s ever existed since the Second World War!’
I smile but I’m too drained to enter the fray. And I know Parnell’s only messing.
‘Second World War! Cheeky mare,’ he says, smiling. ‘Anyway, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, Patrick Mackie was definitely something of a big-shot back in the day. Made his name in the Seventies but really came into his own in the Eighties and kept going until around 2007. Drug trafficking, protection rackets, prostitution, security fraud, you name it. There were rumours he was involved in people trafficking too – maybe not actually running the show, but putting the money up. Same with a number of big-league armed robberies.’
‘Mainly London?’ I ask, just to say something. Asking questions makes me feel a little less isolated.
‘Mainly, but the big networks always spread it out a bit. That way, they exploit the fragmented nature of our so-called “great” British policing structure. It was definitely fragmented in those days, anyway.’
‘So what happened to knock him off his perch?’ asks Flowers.
‘SOCA, that’s what happened.’ Serious Organised Crime Agency. ‘Tony Blair’s vow to make life hell for the “Mr Bigs”. Mackie got a tip-off we were closing in on him, did a flit. Amsterdam for a while, apparently, then Spain. Not a peep out of him since.’
‘I suppose it was one of us that tipped him off?’ says a world-weary Flowers.
Parnell rubs his hands. ‘A high-ranking politician, if you believe the rumours.’
‘Bit of a risk coming back to the UK?’ suggests Craig.
‘He’s old, terminally ill. Not got a lot to lose, I suppose.’
Maryanne. This is about Maryanne, not some washed-up gangster in a Santa suit.
I look at Parnell. ‘Boss, this is all very interesting but what are we saying? Maryanne was mixed up in some sort of organised crime thing? And anyway, Patrick Mackie had retired, right?’
‘His sort never retire, they just retreat into the background. I mean, those nail bars that Nate Hicks supposedly owns. They’ve got Patrick Mackie written all over them. Nail bars, tanning salons, what have you – classic fronts for money laundering.’
Renée shouts over. ‘The Hickses both came up clean as a whistle though, nothing on the PNC. Nothing for a Gina Mackie either.’
‘They’re involved,’ says Parnell without a shadow of doubt. ‘Somehow. They have to be. We just have to pray Forensics turns something up at the house and we can worry about the “why?” later. For now, we just need something to hang our hat on. How are we going on Leo Hicks, Cat?’
Honest answer – we aren’t.
‘I’ve been on to Passport Control in Vienna. He definitely entered the country on Sunday 28th so maybe they are telling the truth about that and it’s nothing? Maybe he was sent to Saskia’s with some sort of message, he did his Billy-big-balls thing, and then he left? I managed to get hold of his head teacher – you know, in case the concert was a school thing and he could give me a location, but apparently it’s not. First he’d heard of it, actually. Kept going on and on about what a talent Leo is and how they’re hoping he’ll get into the Royal College of Music.’
‘We’ll find him,’ says Parnell, ‘it’s a matter of time. Even if Nate and Gina have stopped talking, we’ve got their phones now and they must have been in contact with him, surely? They both seem pretty hot on deleting texts but once Digital get digging, we should get something.’
‘I’ve got something!’ Across the other side of the room, Seth slams the phone down then struts a victory walk across the floor. ‘Saskia French.’ Parnell reaches for his car keys. ‘No, no, don’t get too excited, Boss, it’s not a sighting – it’s someone who thinks she worked with her in the late Nineties/early Noughties at an abortion clinic in Camden. She knew her as Sarah Finch though – very inventive – and she was a receptionist/admin type. They fired her early 2001 when she was caught taking sensitive information home, basically clients’ personal details. They thought she was maybe planning to blackmail some of them. Apparently, they didn’t call the police at the time because they didn’t want the drama – it’s hard enough for some women to visit them without hearing about that type of thing – but anyway, she just thought it was worth us knowing that if Saskia is this Sarah Finch, she’s always been a bit of a shady character.’
‘So she’s not certain it’s her?’ I say, raining on Seth’s parade which absolutely isn’t my intention.
‘Fairly sure but she wouldn’t “put the house on it”, were her exact words. I think it’s the same person though. She was able to give me a lot of physical detail – well, as much as you can fifteen years later – and I’ve just cross-checked with the extra description Naomi Berry gave to Steele for the TV appeal.’
‘What extra description?’ I ask.
I didn’t actually watch it. Couldn’t bring myself to.
‘Distinguishing features, that sort of thing.’
‘She’s not far off six feet, that’s fairly distinguishing,’ says Craig.
Seth nods. ‘Indeed, but she’s also a bit of a tattoo and piercing junkie apparently. My caller said this Sarah Finch used to have several piercings and tattoos. She’d get a little contrary when they’d ask her to cover them up on reception. That fits with what Naomi Berry told Steele about how when Saskia’s “off-duty,” she usually wears a ring in her nose, one in her eyebrow.’ He points to the deep groove under his bottom lip. ‘And a stud just here.’
An ice-cold sensation sweeps the surface of my skin. Seth’s voice fades to nothing and a sharper voice comes into unwelcome focus: Noel.
‘At a rough guess, I’d say he’s shagging that sweet-ass with the lip-stud, the one who comes in here.’
The one who stood with her back to me in McAuley’s. Tribal tattoos snaking all the way down her spine.
What had Dad said about her?
‘She’s in her thirties, actually, and anyway she’s just a friend.’
Dad knows Saskia.
I wait until Seth’s finished then pull Parnell to one side. Tell him I need to pop out for a while. Say I know it’s not ideal but I’m not feeling great. Nothing major, no dramas, but I need some fresh air and maybe a trip to the chemist. Just an hour, I say, tops.
Of course, he says, no problem. Take as long as I need. Come to think of it, he thought I was looking a bit ropey.
I thank him, say he’s the best boss ever, say I’ll just finish my notes on the call with Leo’s head teacher and then I’ll head off.
I don’t say there’s a chance I might never be back.