‘I’ll be honest, it’s not looking good, Gina.’
Silence.
Parnell, king of the understatement, sits across from a rigid Gina Hicks the next morning. Renée simmers gently beside him, ready to jump in with a barbed word or a subtle knife twist as per the interview plan. Felix Whiteley looks like every other extortionate brief I’ve locked horns with, bloated in speech and bloated in stature, with an air of cool arrogance masking a hawk-eyed hyper-vigilance.
I’m back in the observation room, this time with Seth and Ben. Flowers sticks his head in occasionally, asks if there’s ‘anything juicy’ to report.
The short answer’s no. Nothing juicy at all, unless you count Whiteley’s fruit smoothie. Smoothies, in fact – plural. One for him and one for Gina. That’s what £650 an hour gets you – a radioactive-looking Fibre-Blast and a hairbrush by the looks of Gina’s mane. Her smoothie sits untouched though. According to the custody sergeant, nothing more than a few sips of water have passed her lips since he took her through the charge-room process seventeen hours ago.
Same goes for me almost. Just a couple of pints of water and a few tots of rum. The thought of anything solid makes me heave.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Parnell had said when he’d found me hunched over my desk this morning, researching concert venues in Vienna. ‘Seriously, you look worse than yesterday. Do you know what would do you the world of good, Kinsella? A dose of home comforts. Chicken soup, a bottle of Lucozade and a few days’ rest.’
Home.
Comfort.
Two words I’d never put in the same sentence. An oxymoron, Seth would say.
‘Honestly, it’s not looking good Gina,’ repeats Parnell. ‘And it’s looking worse every minute we sit here. I’m losing my patience and you’re losing any chance of getting out of prison before pension age.’
It’s been an hour already. The gist of Saskia’s statement has been outlined to Gina but ‘no comment’ is the order of the day. ‘No comment’ peppered with the odd, ‘My client declines to answer’ from Felix Whiteley, just to mix things up a little. Keep everyone on their toes.
Same from Nate Hicks a little earlier – Seth and Flowers had toiled through that one.
‘Come on, Gina, you must realise that “no comment” makes you look guilty?’ says Parnell.
Whiteley objects. ‘It makes her look nothing of the sort. My client is acting on robust legal advice, nothing more.’ His voice doesn’t quite suit his body – it’s twee, almost girlish.
Parnell sighs, crosses his arms. ‘Mr Whiteley, I’m no legal expert, but as I understand it, the point of “no comment” is to prevent yourself from saying anything that might incriminate you. But this clearly incriminates your client.’ Parnell hands him a photo – a high-resolution crime-scene snap. ‘As you can see, luminol has been sprayed and blood detected close to the bottom of your client’s stairs. The swirling pattern suggests an attempt has been made to clean up this blood.’
Whiteley surveys the photo. Gina stares straight ahead.
‘I’d say it’s rather early to confirm exactly whose blood that is, Detective Inspector. I doubt your forensics team have even started recovering the blood yet, much less testing it for DNA?’
‘Correct. But we all know it will turn out to be Maryanne Doyle’s, and therefore combined with Saskia French’s statement, we’ll have irrefutable evidence against your client.’
Whiteley offers Parnell a thin-lipped smile. To the likes of a £650 per hour lawyer, ‘irrefutable’ is a challenge laid down. Gloves off, game on.
Parnell appeals to Gina instead. ‘Are you listening? Irrefutable. So there’s very little point to this “no comment” palaver. The best thing you can do is just talk to us.’
It isn’t actually, it’s the worst. Every word she says makes our life easier, not hers. Whiteley’s primed his client to perfection.
She lowers her head. ‘No comment.’
Parnell dips down, he’s not letting her get out of eye-contact that easily. ‘Look, we know Maryanne was definitely injured inside your house – science and an eyewitness confirm it – but who strangled her, Gina? Who slashed her throat. Was it you, hmm? My money says no. I don’t think you’ve got in you.’
‘No comment.’
‘Did Maryanne fall? If Maryanne fell then that wasn’t your fault, and if you tell us who killed her, that will work in your favour.’
‘No comment.’
Renée sharpens her knife. ‘Shall we talk about the baby-trafficking then? That’s not going to go down well in prison, trust me. Tell us what happened to Maryanne and we might be able to help you.’
Whiteley’s nearly on his feet. ‘My client does not wish to answer any questions with regards to . . .’
‘Where are the twins?’ Gina cuts in, surprising us all. ‘And Amber?’
Renée looks to Parnell. ‘My God, we have a comment!’
‘Actually, it’s a question,’ says Whiteley. I’m not sure if he’s being a smart-arse or there’s some important legal distinction.
Parnell nods. ‘And unlike your client, we’re happy to answer her questions.’ To Gina, ‘I understand your children are in the care of Nate’s mother at the moment.’
Contradictory emotions flood her face – resentment and relief doing battle.
‘Of course we’ve contacted Social Services to make sure a more long-term plan is formalised,’ says Renée, almost gleefully, just to get a reaction.
Gina pushes her chair back abruptly, starts pacing the few steps between the table and the wall.
‘Where’s Leo?’ asks Parnell, tightening the screw.
She opens her mouth but Whiteley stops her with an ‘I-got-this’ gesture. ‘I believe my client has already informed you that her son is Austria.’
‘But she seems unwilling to give us an exact address and we need to speak with him, now more than ever in light of Saskia French’s claim that he threatened her. It would certainly be to his advantage to contact us voluntarily.’
She sits down again, legs crossed tightly, right foot twitching. ‘Can I ask why you’re so quick to take Saskia French’s word for everything? Or should I say, Sarah Finch.’ Whiteley tries to silence her again with a pudgy hand on a bony forearm but she shakes him off quickly. ‘Have you actually checked Sarah Finch’s record? She’s not exactly known for telling the truth.’
We have, as it goes. The three counts of shoplifting we can live with. A caution for giving a false statement to the police back in 1997 could prove sticky.
‘Few people are, actually. Makes our job a nightmare.’ Parnell turns to Renée. ‘What’s that quote again? The one Kinsella says all the time, the funny one.’ He pretends to think but I know he knows it. ‘Oh yeah, that’s it – “Only three things tell the truth – small children, drunk people and leggings.” He chuckles to himself. ‘Good, isn’t it? It leaves out science, though. Science almost always tells the truth.’
I need Gina Hicks to tell the truth. As bad as things look for her, they don’t look too rosy for me if Parnell and Renée can’t crack her open.
Because if Gina doesn’t come clean, it means a trial.
And a trial means police testimony.
And police testimony means choosing between coming clean – aka career suicide – or taking my chances and lying on the stand.
Committing perjury.
I have to persuade her to tell the truth.
I stand up and walk out. Seth asks where I’m off to so I say ‘bad stomach’ which shuts him down pronto, and I walk down the corridor to the interview room, feeling like it’s the longest mile when it actually can’t be more than twenty steps. I knock on the door and ask to speak to Parnell. He acts like it’s fine and dandy, an almost expected interruption, but when we come face-to-face, his is thunderous, his language distinctly un-Parnell.
‘Fuck’s sake, Kinsella.’ The ‘F’ word from Parnell rocks me and I actually feel tears prick the back of my throat. ‘If you’re after permission to go home, you could have just asked Flowers, you know? He is a sergeant. He does have authority. She was just starting to drop the “no comments” as well. Jesus!’
‘I know. I’ve been watching it in the other room.’ I square my shoulders, lengthen my spine – try to make myself as big as possible. ‘Boss, I want to come in. She might have dropped the “no comments” but she’s not responding to you and Renée, you can see it in her body language. I think I might be able to get through to her, though.’
‘Oh yes? And what makes you Clarice Starling all of a sudden?’ He’s tetchy, not buying it. ‘Anyway, we’ve got enough to charge her without a confession. It’s not ideal but we’ve worked with less.’
Here goes.
‘Seriously? You’ve got enough to charge her with assault, possibly, if Forensics can come up with something to prove she was pushed down the stairs, because Saskia’s statement alone won’t do it, she said she couldn’t see properly. And Gina’s right about Saskia’s character. She’ll be torn to pieces if this goes to trial. As for the murder, you’ve got zilch, and you don’t think she’s got the stomach for it anyway, nor do I. But we both know she knows who did it. She’s just not going to give it up unless she feels she has to.’
And she has to. She absolutely has to.
Seth walks past, shooting me a funny look which thankfully Parnell doesn’t notice. Parnell’s too busy digesting the fact he’s being lectured to by a twenty-six-year-old DC.
‘Look, Boss, it makes sense,’ I say, trying to sound level-headed. ‘I’ve spent the most time with her, I know what buttons to press. Think about it, I’ve been there for every interaction she’s had and it was me she asked for when she came to the station that day.’
‘To tell you a pack of lies, which could mean she thinks you’re gullible.’
His words sting but to be fair, I’m punching below the belt too, implying he and Renée aren’t nailing this. ‘Or it could mean she finds me easy to talk to, compassionate. But, hey, if she thinks I’m gullible, then great. In trying to trick me, she might end up tricking herself. Anything’s worth a shot, surely?’
He doesn’t answer, just walks back into the room and proposes a fifteen-minute break. I assume it’s so he can call the Crime Scene Manager to talk trajectories and get some definitive proof that Maryanne was pushed down the stairs, but it appears I’m wrong.
And it appears I’m in.
While Gina’s taken to use the bathroom, Parnell calls me in and explains to Whiteley that I’ll be taking Renée’s place. Whiteley gives a detached shrug – one inexpensively dressed police officer is much the same as another to him. Renée, completely devoid of any ego, is equally indifferent.
When Gina comes back into the room, she tries to mirror Whiteley’s ‘whatever’ stance but there’s a tiny shift in her demeanour. Not softer, but less pinched. She obviously sees a friendly face in me. Or maybe a stooge? It doesn’t really matter, though, I can work with either.
‘Hello again.’ She sits down, her posture slightly less rigid than before. ‘Were you out celebrating New Year last night, you look like you might have been?’
Parnell’s eyes flick to the tape. The last thing he wants is some barrister on a six-figure retainer claiming the interview was flawed because one of the officers was hungover. Thankfully I haven’t switched it on yet.
I smile. ‘I’m fine thanks, Gina. Had to rush my make-up this morning, that’s all.’
‘Lucky you. I’m still wearing yesterday’s.’
I grant her one more smile before the tape goes on and I open up the case-file. I take out a number of the post-mortem photos and lay them across the table. Whiteley rests his chin in one hand, casting an expressionless glance over the macabre jigsaw.
‘Are these supposed to shock me?’ says Gina, flatly. ‘I don’t mean to sound callous but I was a doctor for fifteen years before I had the twins, mainly general practice but a little time in A&E too, so I’m afraid I’m really not that squeamish.’
‘It’s different when you know the person, surely?’ I say.
‘No comment.’
Here we go again.
‘It’s different when you caused those injuries?’
A look to the ceiling. ‘No comment.’
‘But then, which of these injuries did you cause, Gina?’ I hold up the head shot, point out the deep laceration across the front of Maryanne’s hairless head. ‘I mean, we’re pretty sure you – or your stairs – caused this, but what about this?’ A chest shot this time, a red-blue bruise, possibly knee-shaped between the ribs. ‘Or how about this?’ Finally, Maryanne’s throat – the fingertip bruising, the superficial slashes.
‘No comment.’
‘Was it Nate?’ I say, picking up the pace. ‘Word is, he’s a bit of a “yes” man, but would he kill for you, Gina. Is he that devoted? Or that dependant on you? You and your father’s money?’
‘Fucking Nate.’
It’s not the swearing that startles me, it’s the pure, unfiltered contempt. I take a second to work out how to use this to our advantage but Parnell’s ahead of me, keen to keep prodding the wound while it’s still gaping raw.
‘You and Maryanne fought,’ he states. ‘She fell or you pushed her and then you panicked. You asked Nate to sort it, didn’t you?’
‘No comment.’
He keeps going. ‘Or maybe you didn’t ask him? Maybe Nate got rid of Maryanne of his own accord?
‘No comment.’
‘Are you scared of Nate, Gina? Of what he’s done?’
She sighs. ‘No comment.’
Same old, same old, but there’s a weariness creeping in.
‘Look,’ I tell her. ‘All we need is one fibre or one skin cell to match the trace we’ve got off Maryanne’s body and Nate’s going away, Gina. It’ll be better for you, for your children, if you talk to us – if the truth comes from you.’
At the mention of her children, she draws a sharp breath and closes her eyes.
I now know exactly how to play this.
I start clearing away the photos. ‘You know, you can follow Mr Whiteley’s advice if you want, but my Inspector’s going to charge you anyway, and then do you know where your “no comments” will get you?’ The threat in my voice forces her eyes open. ‘The Old Bailey – Court One, maybe. Media speculation. Strangers judging you, calling you a monster and a bitch on Twitter. And not just for your part in Maryanne’s death, but for what you did all those years ago, all those babies you sold.’ She blinks hard, more a twitch than a blink. ‘Oh yeah, that will all have to come out. Whenever you do finally get out of prison, I don’t think you’ll need to worry about catering for Christmas drinks again. You’ll be a pariah.’
Whiteley clears his throat but I don’t give him the chance. Not when Gina’s looking so horrifically spellbound.
‘You’re not a bad person, Gina. You’ve done some really bad things but you’re not a bad person, I genuinely believe that.’ I nod sideways towards Parnell. ‘My Inspector here thinks you’re nothing but a liar. He thinks you told me a pack of lies when you came in to see me on Christmas Eve, and in the main he’s right, most of it was lies, all that stuff about meeting Maryanne on the IVF forum. But the thing is I’ve checked your medical records – your IVF struggle wasn’t a lie, was it? Nine rounds! Must have been very gruelling. I can’t imagine how much the twins must mean to you. Well, it’s obvious all your kids mean the world to you.’
She gives me a long hard stare before leaning over to Whiteley. They whisper back and forth for a few seconds before the conflab ends with a solemn nod from Gina and a ‘on-your-head-be-it’ shrug from her brief.
There’s a palpable silence before Whiteley says, ‘My client admits that there was an altercation at her home with the deceased, Maryanne Doyle. Maryanne fell down the stairs and injured herself but she left the house, walking wounded. She has no idea what happened to her after that.’
I shake my head, disappointed. Inside I’m screaming.
‘I’m afraid that’s not good enough, Gina. You’ve only admitted to what we already know. To quote the popular phrase, “we’ll see you in court”.’
I stand up, willing Parnell to join me. Willing Gina to start panicking and pour forth.
Parnell’s knees have barely had time to click before my second wish comes true.
‘I offered her money but she just wouldn’t go,’ Gina says, looking up at me. There’s amazement in her voice, a twisted wonder at the fact not all problems can be solved with money. ‘That’s all I wanted, for her to go away, to stop talking about the ba—’ she cringes, can’t say it – ‘to stop talking about what we’d done, all the things that went on back then. But she just wouldn’t shut up so I told her. I told her the truth, that I didn’t know where . . .’ She can’t finish that sentence either. ‘She went completely berserk. She said she was going to come back the next day and the day after and that she’d tell my children what I’d done with her child.’ Her lip curls. ‘She wasn’t so worried about her child back then, not when she was earning good money. I pointed that out to her and she went for me, well, we went for each other, really. We were both pushing each other.’
All the cringes and the half-finished sentences will have to be filled in at some point. Hours of fact-checking and tedious substantiation always follow even the most detailed of confessions, but right now it will do if it moves us on to the main event.
I sit back down. ‘The fall didn’t kill her, Gina. Who did?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Yes you do.’ I lean in. ‘Think about this very carefully. What happened with Maryanne happened because you didn’t want your kids knowing what you’d done – well, if this goes to trial, they’ll know everything. And so will everyone else, all their friends, their friends’ parents, their teachers. Every dirty little detail. The baby-factory, the trafficking, the pimping. They’ll hear about Kristen too. Your kids will find out about what happened to Kristen.’
The look on Gina’s face tells me two things – one, that she’s unravelling, two, that Kristen’s probably dead.
The look on Parnell’s face reminds me of another thing. I wasn’t supposed to be here last night. I’m not supposed to know about Kristen.
I push on.
‘Can you live with your kids hating you, Gina? Thinking you’re a monster? Reading every gruesome detail in the papers, online. Can you really run that risk?’
‘Don’t listen to them,’ warns Whiteley, although his heart’s not really in it. He knows he’s lost control. ‘They’re simply trying to intimidate you.’
Gina’s head shakes continuously, side to side. ‘But I can’t run that risk. And he wouldn’t want me to.’
‘He?’ says Parnell. ‘Nate?’
She looks at me, ignores Parnell. ‘If he admits to it, there’s no trial, no details, no media?’
Not quite.
‘If there’s guilty pleas all round, it’ll move straight to sentencing and a lot less detail will be out there in the public domain. Your kids will definitely be less exposed, I can promise you that.’
‘He’d want me to do this.’ She whispers this more to herself, than us. ‘He wouldn’t want the kids suffering, he wouldn’t . . .’
‘So it was Nate?’ I say, my breath coming quickly.
‘Fucking Nate.’ That vicious spit again. ‘Do you really think he’s got the balls to do something like this? I was shaken up after Maryanne fell, I didn’t know what else to do. She was moving, sort of, but she’d hit her head badly, there was a lot of blood. I just froze.’
‘And?’
‘And? And who else does a girl turn to when she’s in trouble?’