I picture us in the pub when this is all over. Flowers is getting the round in. Ben and Seth are monopolising the jukebox as usual. Me and Parnell have bagged our regular table – the oak-panelled booth, big and round enough to house a mid-size Murder team and Renée’s swearing she’s only staying for one – later claiming she meant one bottle, not one glass. Emily’s being chatted up by someone – could be one of the old boys who drink in here because the beer’s fairly cheap and they show the Channel 4 racing, or maybe one of the young suits, who pour out of local offices, professing their love for a ‘proper old boozer’ before loading up on low-strength bottled lager and bags of vegetable crisps.
As ever, the busiest woman in Christendom – DCI Kate Steele – ‘will be there in a minute’.
Then once the booze has been bought and the tunes have been chosen, conversation will inevitably turn to the moment this case cracked open. Our breakthrough. Everyone will stake a claim in it, of course. Exaggerate their part in its unravelling. But the fact of the matter is nobody swung this case one way or the other. No one gets the bragging rights. Because as far as anyone except me is concerned, at nine fifty-two p.m. on December 31st 2016, Saskia French walked into the reception of Holborn police station and voluntarily, and of her own volition, asked to speak with whoever was in charge of the Maryanne Doyle investigation.
Parnell was out at the time, having a quick walk around the block – his ‘evening constitutional’ to quote the great man himself, so Seth got the gist down while Parnell hot-footed it back to HQ, read Saskia her rights.
She refused a solicitor.
This is how it happened, no matter how it’s romanticised and re-configured in the annals of MIT4 history.
This is how it’s happening right now, in fact.
Present in the interview are Acting Detective Inspector Luigi Parnell and DC Renée Akwa. Parnell and Renée are a good combination. More nuanced than good cop/bad cop, they aim for friendly cop/formal cop with Parnell doing the empathy, Renée, the direct questions.
Slumped in the observation room watching everything on TV is me.
I haven’t worked out what I’ll say to Parnell about why I’m back here. Why I’m not tucked up in bed nursing my sudden mystery illness. All I know right now is that I need to be here. There’s no way I can let Saskia out of my sight, not now she a significant witness.
A significant witness with an incendiary energy you can never quite trust.
A significant witness who’s wearing a jumper of mine, nicked from the wardrobe of my old teenage bedroom.
*
‘OK, Saskia, let’s start at the beginning.’ Parnell leans back, getting comfy – a signal for her to do the same. ‘It is Saskia? Not Sarah?’
A slow smirk as she trails a finger along the edge of the table. ‘Saskia.’
‘Why did you change it?’ asks Parnell, as though just curious.
‘There’s no big story. I just wanted something more exotic for work. Sarah seemed a bit conventional, a bit wifey. That’s not what clients want.’
‘Fair enough.’
Renée takes over, masking her innate warmth with a cool, factual tone. ‘When did you first meet Maryanne Doyle, Saskia?’
She stretches out her hands, examines her chipped nails.
Arrogance personified but I know it’s all front.
‘In 1999. I was having a fag at the back of the clinic and it was fucking freezing so it can’t have been any later than say, February. She bummed a light off me, said she worked in an office across the road, and then every fag break for a few days after, there she was. Anyway, we got talking, just about bands and that, and then one day she produces these tickets – Faithless, Brixton Academy. I thought it was sold out but she just laughs, says she knows people, and then she says none of her mates are that into them, so do I fancy it? I mean, I thought it was a bit weird but I really wanted to see them so I thought “fuck it”. And then we sort of became mates. She always had loads of money, she was always paying for things – more gigs, swanky bars, the best clubs . . .’ She draws her hands back, sits on them. ‘Anyway, this went on for a couple of months and then she asked me. I knew she’d been building up to it then, this “new best friend” act had just been a load of bollocks.’
‘Asked you what?’ asks Renée.
She looks downwards. ‘If I’d be up for passing on the details of any girls booked in for abortions, or consultations, who I thought might be wobbling, especially Irish girls. She said she knew some guy who’d pay big for that kind of information. I worked on reception, you see – booked the girls in, watched them. You get to know the signs.’
‘And you agreed to do this?’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Well, I didn’t exactly say “yeah, no problem” the first time she asked, but I was skint, OK. Minimum wage had just come in, literally that week, and I was getting a pay rise to three pounds sixty an hour – when I told Maryanne, she burst out laughing. That kinda sealed it.’
Parnell nods, all compassion and understanding. ‘And that was it? You’d pass on the details, they’d bump up your bank balance?’
‘In the beginning. But then I started to learn more about how it all worked, more about Maryanne, how she’d sold her baby, started up a “business” with this guy. It just seemed like she had the life of Riley, living in this flat in the centre of town, earning a few thousand a month just for babysitting a couple of pregnant girls. I mean, I soon learned it wasn’t “babysitting”, it was guarding, but at the time it sounded amazing and I wanted in. So I said to her, surely if there were two “babysitters” they could have more girls, right? She said she’d speak to her “guy”.’
‘This guy’s name?’ asks Renée, flat, expressionless.
She hesitates, knows she’s about to go over the top. ‘His name’s Patrick Mackie, but I think she spoke to his daughter, Gina. Gina was more involved on a daily basis. She delivered the babies too.’
Renée’s voice is stern. ‘For the benefit of the tape, you’re referring to Gina Hicks, your landlady.’
Saskia leans over, mimics Renée. ‘For the benefit of the tape, that’s right.’ She smiles to herself, cracking the centre of her bottom lip, drawing blood.
‘Carry on,’ says Renée, not rising to it.
‘Yeah, so Maryanne speaks to Gina. Few weeks later I’ve got the life of Riley too. Although I had to keep my job at the clinic, of course.’
Parnell leans in. ‘So let me get this straight. You’d give the details to Maryanne. She’d approach a girl, someone who didn’t seem that sold on having an abortion, and she’d make them an offer they couldn’t refuse? Is that how it worked?’
‘Well, it wasn’t exactly that straightforward but in a nutshell, yeah. It was a good sell – a nice long stay in a luxury London flat – it was luxury back then – you got all your needs catered for and then eight grand at the end of it. I mean, the sell had to be good. The girls had to lie to their families about where they were for months on end, it wasn’t easy. But then eight grand’s a lot of money. Maryanne used to brag she’d been paid ten grand but Mackie wouldn’t pay that again, not when he had “overheads” to factor in. That’s what he used to call me and Maryanne – fucking “overheads”.’
Parnell puffs his cheeks out. ‘Risky business. Didn’t Maryanne worry about someone telling her to bugger off and going to the police?’
‘Some did tell her to piss off, but they were hardly likely to blab. If they weren’t interested they just wanted to get it over and done with as quietly as possible, they weren’t going to start making big noises about the fact they were in England for an abortion. And I mean, she didn’t approach that many. I got good at knowing who looked good for it so our hit rate was high.’ Hands open, explanatory-mode. ‘Like, it didn’t matter how wobbly they were, if they were too young I knew they’d have a hard time getting away with the seven-to-eight-month disappearing act so we didn’t bother. Too old and they could be a bit too feisty, knew their own minds more, not as easy to control.’ She catches herself. ‘God that sounds fucking awful, doesn’t it? But I was nineteen, I’d had a shit life up until then and I liked the money.’
Parnell’s voice is soft and steady. ‘Look, we’re not here to judge you, Saskia. Don’t flog yourself on our account, just keep going. You’re doing great.’ She gives a grateful nod. ‘OK, so when a girl agreed, what happened?’
‘We’d send them to “host families” for a few days while we got things sorted. Some clinics do that, you know – for women who can’t afford the few nights in a B&B – so Maryanne thought it made it sound a bit more legitimate if we did it too. ’Course, the “families” were just people on Mackie’s payroll, it was a big farce. Soon as we could though, we’d move them into the flat.’
Renée picks up a sheet of paper. ‘12c Ophelia Mansions, Frederick Street, King’s Cross. Where you currently still reside?’
She nods, flashes a sarky smile. ‘Yes. Where I still reside.’
‘And what, you’d literally hot-house these girls until they gave birth?’
She mouths the word ‘hot-house’, ponders it. ‘I suppose you could call it that. But it wasn’t exactly the workhouse. Only the best food, you know – Gina, she was a GP, she was obsessed with nutrition – and then there was Sky TV, every channel going, and basically whatever they wanted, books, magazines, fancy toiletries – and some of them really took the piss with the brands they’d ask for – me or Maryanne would get it for them. Usually me as I was out more because of my job.’
Parnell rubs his chin. ‘So you’re saying they never left the flat? Forget nutrition, that can’t be healthy?’
‘Maryanne took them for walks sometimes, once she trusted them.’
Renée’s look is pure ice. ‘Like dogs?’
Saskia bolts upright in her chair, jabs a finger towards Renée. ‘She didn’t have to do that, you know? Gina never insisted. It was an act of kindness.’ Parnell smiles, smooths things over. ‘’Course she wanted to get out too. She’d take the girls for picnics on warmer days – just to Leamington Square Gardens, it wasn’t far. She bloody loved it there, said it was exactly how she’d imagined London to be, all posh Georgian houses and old-fashioned streetlamps.’ She pauses, catches a tight little breath. ‘That’s where she was found, wasn’t it?’
Parnell nods reverently.
Her jaw tightens. ‘Bastards. I bet that was a warning to everyone to keep their mouths shut. Any girl who passed through the flat would have got the message loud and clear – they all loved the gardens, see, it was the only place they ever got out to. We were all pretty much prisoners, we just didn’t see it that way.’ She smiles and it’s a genuine smile, no side-helping of sarcasm. ‘Me and Maryanne did sneak out sometimes though, at night, left the girls on their own. Turnmills was a favourite, it was less than a mile, you see. We went as far as Heaven once though, over by Charing Cross. It was risky but it was worth it, you know. Just to be able to do normal things for a few hours – dancing, flirting . . . not sitting in night after night, watching repeats of Friends with a load of hormonal women.’
‘What about men?’ asks Parnell, leaning back again. ‘Any male visitors?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
I put my hand to the back of my neck – not clammy, red-hot.
Don’t be defensive, I will her. Don’t flat-out deny it.
But Saskia’s a smart cookie, she knows they’re asking for a reason. ‘There were a few around occasionally, just Mackie’s associates. The odd party, or drop-off.’
‘Drop-off?’ asks Renée. ‘Stuff for the girls?’
A hollow laugh. ‘Not exactly. They’d store drugs in the flat sometimes. Money. Weapons occasionally, although Maryanne kicked off about that. I can’t remember names, though. I can barely remember faces.’
‘Well, this was hanging on your wall.’ Parnell slides the photo over, points at the men. ‘Jog any memories?’
She stares for a long time, poker-faced. ‘Nope,’ she says, pushing it back. ‘It was a long time ago. I forgot that photo was even there, to be honest. I hardly ever go in that room. God, I was gorgeous back then,’ she says, changing the subject, looking to Renée. ‘You don’t realise it at the time, do you? You don’t appreciate it.’
Renée stays stony-faced while Parnell taps his palms on the table – a chirpy move, almost like a drum roll. ‘So all good things come to an end, as they say. How long were you and Maryanne involved?’
She answers instantly, like it’s just yesterday. ‘Maryanne took off for Brighton early 2001 – she was always going on about wanting to live by the sea. I kept going for a bit but it was too much for just one person. I started making mistakes at the clinic, being too obvious, I suppose. Anyway, I got fired when they caught me with clients details on my phone.’
‘The Mackies must have been angry at Maryanne for leaving?’
‘Yeah, but not as much as I thought. I think Mackie was wanting to wind things down anyway. Bigger fish to fry, easier scams to run. And I reckon Gina’d lost interest – don’t know if she ever had any interest, to be fair – she was just following Daddy’s orders. She was like a robot.’
‘So is that what happened with Maryanne?’ There’s a taunt in Renée’s tone, I wonder how Saskia will take it. ‘She lost interest in earning lots of money for eating picnics and watching Sky TV?’
Saskia blinks slowly, doesn’t react. ‘She lost faith in what she was doing.’
‘Faith?’ echoes Parnell.
‘Yes, faith. Look, I’ll hold my hands up, I did it for the money, pure and simple, but Maryanne – now I’m not saying she wasn’t a greedy cow, ’cos she was – but she did genuinely think we were doing a good thing. Giving someone a good option. I used to take the piss out of her, laugh at her fairy godmother act, but to be fair she’d been through it, not me. She knew what a lifeline it had been.’
‘Sure, sure,’ says Parnell, nodding quickly. ‘So what changed? Why’d she lose faith?’
She stares at the table, bites her lip. Blood pools at the centre again but she doesn’t seem to notice. ‘Something happened, late 2000, coming up to Christmas. There was this girl, her name was Kristen. Nice girl, but she kept chopping and changing her mind throughout the pregnancy, she was high-maintenance, a pain in the arse, really. Maryanne was always having to talk her around – I left that side to Maryanne – like I say, she’d been through it, not me. Anyway, after Kristen gave birth, that was it, she was keeping her baby and that was the end of it. It was the first time it’d actually happened. Maryanne was shitting herself, expecting Gina to go mental . . .’
‘And she didn’t?’ asks Parnell
Her face sours. ‘No, because she just walked into the flat and took it anyway. Literally just lifted the baby out of the Moses basket with Kristen sitting there screaming.’
Every hard edge I’ve tried to cling on to begins to dissipate, liquefy.
Renée adjusts her ponytail – beats punching the table, I guess. ‘Surely this Kristen went to the police then?’
Saskia looks from the table to the floor and her voice becomes a mumble. ‘No way, she wouldn’t dare. We had their contact details from the clinic, remember? She told Kristen in no uncertain terms, “We know where you live, where your family lives.” I mean, that was always sort of implied once a girl had given birth and she was getting ready to leave the flat, just to keep her in line, you know, but it was the first time I’d heard it said so blatantly.’
‘What did you take it to mean?’ says Renée.
Saskia throws Renée a ‘you-work-it-out’ stare.
‘That they’d harm her family if she said anything?’ offers Parnell.
Saskia shrugs. ‘I don’t know that for sure. Harm her family, make trouble for her family, I dunno? I just know you wouldn’t want to risk finding out.’
‘And this got to Maryanne?’ asks Parnell. ‘Didn’t fit with her fairy godmother image?’
She nods, keeps her gaze on the floor. ‘It gets worse. Gina, after she’d effectively threatened Kristen, says it’s our job to bring her back into line, make her realise it’s all for the best. So she gives us £500 to go up to Oxford Street and buy her some treats. Fucking treats. Few hours later, we walk back into the flat, Kristen’s slit her wrists in the bath and we’re standing there with fucking Topshop bags.’ The memory pales her. ‘I was gutted but seriously, Maryanne was inconsolable. I watched her for weeks afterwards. I was worried she’d slit her wrists too, the way she was moping around. But she didn’t, she just took off. Didn’t even say bye, just left a two-line note. “Gone to Brighton, Have a nice life,” pretty much. It hurt, you know? We’d been through a lot.’
‘Was Kristen dead?’ says Parnell – his tone light, his body language relaxed.
Minimise the crime, keep them talking – ‘Interrogation for Dummies: Intermediate level’.
‘No. She was in a really bad way but she had a pulse.’
‘Did you call an ambulance?’ asks Renée.
‘We called Gina.’ Saskia goes from pale to a deep blush – an appreciation of how piss-poor that sounds, at least. ‘Some guy was there within minutes. Gavin something. Like I say, I don’t remember names. He told me and Maryanne to get out.’
‘Do you know what happened to Kristen? Did she live?’
‘I don’t know. Neither of us could face asking.’ She looks away, loses herself in the oppressive grey walls. ‘Jesus, she was so young.’
‘So were you.’ Renée’s tone stays cool but there’s compassion in the statement. Saskia’s eyes well up. ‘You must have thought of taking off too?’ adds Renée, back to business. ‘What kept you there? What’s kept you there this whole time?’
‘I did, at first, but then I was flavour of the month, you see. The one who stuck around. So once the baby thing wound down, Gina said I could stay on for a bit while I found my feet. All I had to do was “entertain” Patrick Mackie’s friends now and again, turn a blind eye to whatever business they were doing. It was all right for a while, but then one of Mackie’s crew got me into drugs big-style and soon I wasn’t just entertaining the odd villain, I was turning tricks full-time. Earning my keep, they told me. And then they moved other girls into the flat. I recognised one of them – she’d been with us about a year before, one of the girls who’d sold her baby. She’d been this real A-grade student, I remember her telling us she had a place lined up at uni for the following year, she wanted to be an architect. God, by the time she turned up back at the flat, she had a coke habit and two black eyes and I doubt she’d have been able to spell architect.’ Her eyes flick between Renée and Parnell. ‘Me and Maryanne didn’t know this, I swear, but Mackie’s crew were grabbing the most vulnerable ones when they left the flat, the ones feeling a bit down, hormones all over the place, you know? They’d offer them drugs, get them hooked and well, you know where that leads . . .’
‘Are you still using now?’ asks Parnell.
I know what he’s thinking. ‘If you are, you look well on it.’
‘No, I got clean six years ago. Hardly even drink now. But I keep doing what I do because the money’s good and in another few years I’ll have saved enough to start again somewhere. Far away from here. New Zealand, maybe.’
HMP Bronzefield? HMP Downview?
‘And you pay what to who?’ asks Renée.
‘Forty per cent of my earnings to Gina. More than if I worked for an agency, but I get the run of the flat too. I get to choose who I work with these days.’
Renée raises an eyebrow. ‘So Gina Hicks isn’t your landlady, she’s your pimp?’
A nervous dry laugh. ‘I suppose so. I’d like to be a fly on a wall when you put that to her though. Gina likes to think of it as “rent”. She went all up-herself years ago. I think ever since her old man fled the country, she’s tried to live a semi straight-ish life – as much as you can when all your wealth’s come from misery – so she doesn’t like to think of it as taking a prostitute’s earnings.’
‘She wouldn’t have liked Maryanne turning up again,’ says Parnell before adding, ‘When did she turn up, Saskia? When did she get back in contact with you?’
‘Beginning of the month. I hadn’t heard a thing from her since the day she left. I nearly died when I opened the door. So did she, actually – she said she was just chancing it, she didn’t actually think I’d still be here. She looked really different, that shocked me too – still pretty but sort of plain, and she’d lost her accent, pretty much. It’s like she’d completely erased her past. Can’t say I blame her.’
‘And what did she want?’ asks Renée.
‘She didn’t really say at first, just asked if she could come in. So I said “yeah, why not” and I went to make us a coffee, but then as I was walking back to the living room, I saw her standing in the spare room’ – she pulls a perplexed face – ‘and I thought, “what the hell is she doing?’ Then suddenly she turns round and says, ‘This is where I had him. This is the only place I ever held him.’ And I swear, I know this makes me sound like an idiot, but for a minute, I was like, ‘Who? What are you talking about?’ and she said “Daniel” and then burst into tears. Jesus, she’d even given him a name.’
‘Her baby?’ confirms Renée. ‘So she’d regretted giving him away?’
Saskia nods. ‘Although she certainly didn’t at the time. All she ever used to talk about was the money she’d made, what a great option it’d been. I don’t think I even knew she’d had a boy.’
‘Regret’s not always an instant thing,’ says Parnell. ‘Time does the opposite of heal sometimes.’
‘Time, and not being able to have kids,’ replies Saskia, matter-of-fact. ‘It all came pouring out over three cups of coffee. She was married now, see, and they’d been having IVF and it hadn’t worked. And she thought her husband was having an affair to cap it all off. She just kept saying that she couldn’t stop thinking about him – Daniel – whether he was happy, what he looked like now, that sort of thing.’ She gives a small shudder. ‘It was weird. I mean, I felt sorry for her and everything but I hadn’t seen her for so long, it felt awkward.’
‘So how did she end up staying at the flat?’
‘She just came out and asked me. She might have lost her accent and that gorgeous black hair but she definitely hadn’t lost her front. She said she’d left her husband and she was running low on money and she didn’t know what to do to now. I felt like I couldn’t say no. But it was OK for a few days though, we chatted about old times, how mad it all was, and I was starting to think, not that she could stay with me permanently or anything, but just that we could be friends. Then all of a sudden she starts getting intense again.’
‘Intense?’ asks Renée.
‘Hassling me to put her in contact with Gina so she could ask her about Daniel. “Ask what?” I said. She says, “Gina might know where the parents are now, where he is.” She reckoned she wasn’t out to make trouble, she just wanted to know he was OK.’ Her face darkens. ‘Well, of course, I knew Gina would flip so I tried to put her off. I said I didn’t know where Gina lived and that we hardly spoke, I just direct debited the “rent” to her. But then she starts saying, “Can’t you pretend there’s a problem with the flat, the plumbing or something, and then maybe she’ll come here?” I was like, “Yeah right, Maryanne, like Gina’s going to turn up here with her toolbox.” I think she’d almost forgotten what they were like, how dangerous they could be. Anyway, we had an argument about it, I said she’d have to leave and so she piped down after that, said she’d drop it. And she did as well, until about a week later when she tells me she’s run into someone and found out where Gina lives. She was fucking elated.’
‘Who?’ says Parnell, elbows on the table, leaning in. ‘Who had she run into?’
My heart quickens and I move closer to the screen. This is it. This is the moment where my life could literally be pulverised. After all, how do I know she can be trusted? How do I know she meant what she said back at the house? It could all be a game. An elaborate ruse to undermine any case we try to bring against her favourite-landlady-cum-pimp.
Gina Hicks’ voice floods my head.
‘Saskia knows she’s on to a good thing . . .’
‘I don’t know who she’d run into,’ she says firmly, subject closed. ‘Just someone. I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to know.’ In that moment she looks straight at the camera, eyes lasering mine. ‘She didn’t have the exact number of the house but she went over there a few times, reckoned she saw Gina pulling into her road once but she ignored her. And so she kept going back, almost staking out the place, it was nuts. Anyway, after a few visits, I get this “what-the-fuck?” call from Gina, asking if Maryanne’s been in touch with me. So I say she has, and that she’s probably not going to let things go until she gets some sort of answer, so can she just meet her, fob her off with something? Eventually she says, “OK”, and we go to the house a few days later.’
‘We?’ says Parnell, sensing something concrete.
‘Too right. I was worried for Maryanne but I won’t lie, I was worried about my position with Gina too. I thought if I was there, I’d be able to . . .’ – she takes a moment to think of the word – ‘. . . mediate, keep things civil. I thought Gina would appreciate that. Guess I shouldn’t give up my day job, eh?’
‘What happened?’
‘It was Gina’s fault it all turned nasty. Maryanne was fairly calm to begin with, just asking questions, you know? But Gina was in a funny mood, I could see it the minute she let us in. She could have just said, “I don’t know where the parents are, sorry. But I know they were great people, they’d have given him a great life.” End of story – well hopefully, anyway. But she didn’t, she told her the truth.’
Parnell pulls in closer. ‘The truth?’
She drags her fingers down the side of her face. ‘There were no parents. They were just acting, people paid by Mackie to make the girls feel better about handing their babies over. The vast majority were sold on to traffickers, global set-ups, for seriously big money too so God knows what happened to them. Nothing good, I’d say. And Gina told this to Maryanne.’
‘Did you know this?’ asks Renée.
A small movement, pitiful. ‘Not at the time. I’d have never gone along with it if I’d known. I mean, I was greedy, I’ve admitted that, but I’m not a monster. I honestly thought those babies were going to safe homes.’
‘And why did Gina tell Maryanne this?’ says Parnell, confused. ‘Why not, as you say, just fob her off?’
Saskia looks around the room for an answer. Time doesn’t appear to have made sense of it. ‘Honestly? I don’t know. Gina was edgy from the minute we got there, which I understood to a point, but if she’d just played nicely, I reckon Maryanne would have trotted off eventually. Instead she tells us to go up to the first floor, to the utility room, for fuck’s sake, like she didn’t want us dirtying her good rooms. Then she says Maryanne’s got two minutes max before she wants her out of her fucking house. But Maryanne keeps going with all these bloody questions and Gina just sort of flips, says she hasn’t got a clue where Maryanne’s baby is, or anyone else’s for that matter. Tells her they were all sold off to traffickers within minutes of leaving the flat. Maryanne went for her, sort of pushed her out onto the landing, there was a struggle.’
Parnell’s head is slightly bowed. ‘Are you saying you saw Gina Hicks kill Maryanne?’
‘No.’
Renée’s pen stops in mid-air, Parnell’s eyebrows hit the strip lighting.
‘I saw them argue and Gina pushed her down the stairs, or maybe Maryanne fell down the stairs, I couldn’t say for sure from where I was standing.’ She puts her head in her hands, talks to the table. ‘Maryanne must have hit her head because there was blood, quite a bit. And I panicked, I legged it. I wasn’t thinking straight. I thought Gina would blame me for suggesting she see Maryanne and I just wanted out of there. But Maryanne was definitely moving when I left. I know I shouldn’t have run off and I’ve lived with it ever since, but she was alive, she was trying to sit up.’ Her voice gets smaller. ‘The papers said she was strangled though, cuts on her throat and stuff. I don’t know anything about that. I promise you, I don’t.’
Renée jots a few notes down while Parnell digests this, pushing his chair back from the table, giving himself more room to absorb the enormity of what they’ve just heard. If he’s waiting for Saskia to fill the silence though, he’s out of luck. She sits patiently waiting for his reaction, waiting for his judgement.
‘Two questions,’ he says eventually. ‘Firstly, you confirmed to us that you were having a relationship with Nate Hicks but your colleague, Naomi Berry, seemed surprised by this.’ He pulls out a piece of paper from Renée’s stack. ‘“Incredulous” is the word my officer wrote. So do you still stand by that claim?’
I don’t think Ben would have used the word ‘incredulous.’ He’s more of a ‘fucking gobsmacked’ kind of guy.
Saskia flaps a hand. ‘Oh God, that. No, I don’t stand by it. I wouldn’t touch him with a bargepole.’
‘So why did he say it?’ asks Parnell.
Completely deadpan. ‘Because he’s an idiot. But a loyal idiot, to Gina and Patrick Mackie. He says and does anything to make sure he stays in favour.’ She rubs her thumb and first two fingers together, symbolising money. ‘It pays him to.’
‘Would that include strangling Maryanne and dumping her body by Leamington Square Gardens?’
Saskia shrugs, doesn’t commit. ‘I don’t know. Maybe?’ A harsh laugh. ‘Do you wanna hear something funny? That affair bullshit, that was all his idea, independent of Gina. He didn’t know Gina was going to walk into your station and give you a load of crap about IVF forums and what-not. He thought by making up that story about us, he was deflecting the attention away from Gina and putting the spotlight on himself. He called me after you left their house that day to make sure I said the same thing if you asked. He was so fucking pleased with himself. What an absolute tool.’
But the question is, would he want to deflect attention onto himself if he killed Maryanne? The answer’s ‘quite possibly’ – Nate Hicks’ life, his lifestyle, probably his whole self-esteem is built on staying in favour with his wife and her father, and while Gina played a great role, casting Nate as man of the house and her, the harassed middle-class mummy, it’s pretty obvious now who calls the shots in that relationship.
Renée pulls her up. ‘So you’re admitting you lied to us about Nate Hicks? That you obstructed our investigation?’
‘Yes.’ A long hiss like a snake.
Parnell scrapes his chair forward, closes in again. ‘You see, you’ve lied about a lot of things, Saskia. Mainly to protect Gina Hicks too, which brings me to my second question – why should we believe you now? Why are you telling us this now?’
A tension grips her whole body and I feel myself stiffen. Sympathy pains. ‘Because I know I’m a loose end to them. Gina might have been happy sending that little runt round with a threatening message, but Patrick Mackie?’ There’s a tremor around her mouth but she leaves the rest unsaid.
Parnell tries to throw a crumb of comfort. ‘I’ve seen him, Saskia, he weighs less than Renée here. He’s not the man you remember, trust me.’
She taps her chest. ‘Doesn’t matter if his body’s broken, it’s what’s in his heart – and there’s nothing there, trust me, just a black void.’ Parnell opens his mouth but Saskia’s not finished. ‘But I’m also telling you because a very long time ago, Maryanne was my friend, and she didn’t deserve to die. She didn’t deserve me running out on her. I didn’t help her that day but maybe I can help her now.’
Parnell lets out a pained sigh. ‘We still don’t know who killed her though, Saskia. What you’ve given us isn’t quite enough. Ridiculous as it sounds, Gina Hicks could claim Maryanne walked out of her house and straight into the path of a violent stranger. It’s called reasonable doubt and it’s the good friend of the guilty.’
‘Then do your job better.’ Her voices pulses with anger. Anger at herself. At Parnell. At the sheer misfortune of landing the receptionist job that led to this miserable mess. ‘Find out what happened to Maryanne or we’ll both have failed her, won’t we?’ Her eyes well up again. ‘And take it from me, Detective Parnell, it’s a not a nice feeling.’
As I slip out of the observation room and into the lift before Parnell catches me, I consider Saskia’s words and can’t help but agree.
Failing those who’ve put their trust in you is not a nice feeling at all.