by Caz Frear
‘She couldn’t be sure because – get this – the Lapaines don’t live on a street or in a flat, or under a bridge like Benny-boy’ – a nod towards her current favourite stooge – ‘they live on a private island on the Thames. Twelve houses, a population of about thirty, and to get back to my point, they all have to park in the village so the neighbour wouldn’t know if his car was there or not.’
Flowers whistles. ‘Private island, eh. There’s money then?’
Steele nods. ‘And three: when Thomas Lapaine did arrive home fifteen minutes later, he said he’d been out all morning. Walking.’ An alien concept to a woman who lives in four-inch heels. ‘Again, not unusual apparently. Three miles along the Thames Path, from Hampton Court to Kingston Bridge and back again. Takes a couple of hours. Obviously, Renée’s going softly, softly at the moment, but to my mind, it’s suspect. Bloody walking? When all the forecasts are warning, “Don’t take a shit in case your arse gets frostbite”?’
‘He could be telling the truth,’ I say. ‘Of course, what we’d have then is a potential suspect and an early-morning walk along a river path? Disposing of evidence, maybe?’
As a detective, I’m more fuelled by the mysteries and the ‘what-ifs’ than the verifiable truths but I’ve sat in enough of Steele’s first-day briefings to know that I’m about to get my snout slapped for ruining her Festival-of-Irrefutable-Facts.
‘Not a bad theory, Kinsella. One that has absolutely no basis at all at the moment, but not a bad theory.’
We are nothing if not consistent.
Duffle Coat’s hand shoots up. ‘DC Emily Beck, ma’am. So is Thomas Lapaine a serious suspect?’
I cringe as Steele swats the question away. ‘Husband’s always a suspect. Ask me another.’
‘Was he dressed for walking?’ I ask. ‘I mean, you’d want more than your winter woollies in this weather. You’d want decent boots, for a start. A flask. A waterproof, maybe?’
Steele raises an eyebrow. ‘Never had you down as a rambler. Honest answer is I don’t know. I’ve had two minutes on the phone with Renée all morning and she’s obviously having to play nice. Until we’ve got evidence that Thomas Lapaine is anything other than a grieving husband, I don’t want him feeling like he’s a suspect. The last thing we want is him turning against us before we’ve had the chance to interview him properly.’
Seth shouts over from his desk. ‘Bad news, Boss. He might already be against us, I’m afraid. The PNC check has thrown up something.’
Parnell makes a praying gesture. ‘Tell me it’s for offing an ex-wife, Seth. Make it easy on us.’
‘Alas no, Sarge. Section 5. Public Order Offence. He climbed on top of a van at a Reclaim the Streets March in 1996. Usual hundred-yard-hero, calling us “pigs” and “wankers” from a safe distance. He got six months suspended and an eight-hundred pound fine. He’s been squeaky clean ever since. However, and this is the interesting bit, he made an accusation of police brutality.’
Steele’s smile is acidic. ‘Did he really? Him and the rest. Anything in it?’
Seth shakes his head. ‘Doesn’t look like it. He got a tiny bit of gravel rash when they forced him to the ground. It went to the PCA. They rejected it. He didn’t appeal.’
‘Could make him touchy though,’ says Parnell. ‘We’ll have to build that into our interview strategy.’
Steele nods. ‘So what can you pair bring to the party? By the way, this is DS Luigi Parnell and DC Cat Kinsella for anyone who doesn’t know. They were both at the scene this morning. Lu and I go way back, back before some of you were on solids, so if he tells you to do something, do it.’
Parnell looks at me expectantly and I realise I’m being offered up as spokesperson.
‘We don’t have a great deal really.’ When will I learn the art of positive spin? ‘Girl who found her was too wasted to tell me anything. Just kept asking for her mum and her inhaler. We’ll have another crack when she sobers up but I don’t think she’s going to be much help. It was forty minutes between our victim being dumped and found. Whoever dumped her was long gone.’
‘And it’s quiet around there,’ says Parnell, hands raised. ‘Leamington Square’s off the main drag and yes, I know it’s residential, but it was four a.m. Not too many residents wandering about at that hour.’
He’s right, of course. If you had to pick a time when even the most decadent of deviants would be tucked up in bed, you’d probably pick four a.m. on a hypothermic Tuesday morning. But I still think there must be easier places to dump a body.
Steele called it brazen. I call it significant.
Parnell continues. ‘House-to-House are working the square and all the access roads but it’s not throwing up much. It’s up to you, Boss, but you could think about widening the parameters? Open it out towards Exmouth Market, maybe?’
No. Not Exmouth Market. Not my family.
The thought of Dad being questioned about a dead woman, no matter how peripherally, stirs something in me. Something dizzying and destructive.
‘Could do,’ I say, heart hammering. ‘Personally, I think it’d be a waste of time at this stage. People are too preoccupied before Christmas to be that much help. And they’re jumpy as hell too. We’d spend more time giving reassurance than we would gathering information.’
It feels like a lifetime before Parnell speaks again. ‘Maybe, maybe not.’ He looks to Steele. ‘Kinsella’s right about one thing though, people are as jumpy as hell. They’re either going away and leaving their houses empty, or they’ve got family visiting, and obviously neither’s ideal when there’s, and I quote, “a madman on the loose’’.’
Steele groans. ‘Magnificent. That’s all we need. I hope you warned the residents not to talk to reporters. If they get a sniff of a “madman”, they really will think it’s Christmas.’
A silence falls over the room. Just the white-noise drone of technology and Flowers’ stomach rumbling in low, melodic tones.
Steele breaks the lull with a weak laugh. ‘Look, I think we’re just about done here. The Feast needs feeding, don’t want him keeling over, do we?’
Flowers licks his lips in a way I think we’re supposed to find grotesquely erotic.
‘Usual drill,’ says Steele, voice raised. ‘DS Parnell and DS Flowers are your first ports of call, but my door is always open. Unless it’s closed, of course.’ She walks over to her discarded shoes, a pair of emerald suede courts that cost more than my rent. ‘So, final call. Anything else? Anyone?’ She turns on her heel, dropping a hand to Parnell’s arm as she passes. ‘Lu, be a love and sort out assignments. Kinsella, a word, my office.’
*
‘Now I know we’re in the age of “female empowerment” but I’ve got to tell you, Kinsella you look like shit warmed up.’ Steele gestures for me to sit down, picks up a lipstick and applies it perfectly without the aid of a mirror. ‘I mean it, you look awful. Washed-out. Although maybe it’s that top – yellow’s definitely not your colour.’ She pauses. ‘Did you buy it in a panic? I’d take it back if I were you.’
Her face is the very picture of authoritative benevolence, but it’s all in the voice.
She knows.
I don’t know how she knows, but she knows.
‘Good sleep?’ she adds with a pinched smile.
‘Oh, you know, on and off.’ I jerk a thumb towards the incident room. ‘Parnell’s not looking too rosy either.’
‘Parnell! Christ, it’d take more than a bit of beauty sleep to save Luigi Parnell. He’s a lost cause. There’s still hope for you.’
Harsh but fair. Unashamedly overweight and sometimes a little under-groomed, Parnell’s the kind of detective who makes you forget Sonny Crockett and Fox Mulder ever existed.
She drums her nails on the desk. Expertly manicured. I can never imagine her sitting still long enough to have them done. After a few seconds, she stops and leans forward. ‘Look, I’m not going to beat around the bush. Are you absolutely sure you’re ready for this one?’
<
br /> Be calm. Be rational. Stay classy, Kinsella.
‘Of course,’ I say, feigning cool surprise. ‘Why? Have I done something wrong?’
‘No.’ She lowers her head, mutters ‘for God’s sake’, then glances up again, trying to look like she doesn’t want to throttle me. ‘I just think it might be too soon after . . . well, you know.’
‘Alana-Jane. It’s OK, you can say her name. I won’t have a meltdown.’
‘I was thinking of the mother, actually.’
‘Dafina Tolaj. You can say her name too.’
She points the lipstick at me. ‘Listen you, I’m less bothered about her name and more bothered about the fact that she was another blonde, thirty-something woman covered in blood.’ She looks familiar somehow. ‘I think you can do without that again so soon, don’t you? Especially while you’re still seeing Dolores.’
Dolores, not Dr Allen. Visions of them dissecting me over a nice bottle of Merlot does them both a disservice, but I have a tendency to catastrophise when I’m cornered. Another counsellor told me that.
‘You don’t want me on the case, is that it?’
Full-volume. ‘For God’s sake, Kinsella, I’m not picking the netball team. You’re not the fat kid in PE so quit with the doe-eyes. I need everyone at the top of their game at the moment and I’m just not convinced you are.’
‘Based on what exactly?’ It sounds stroppy, confrontational. I mumble a quick ‘sorry’.
Steele shoots me an arch stare. ‘Based on the fact I saw you at the crime scene this morning. You never used to be that queasy.’
I try humour. ‘What can I say? We got pizza from Big Jimmy’s again last night.’ I rub my stomach. ‘Seriously, Boss, they should close that place down.’
She smiles and I sense a tiny victory. ‘Look, I’m not sure Dolores would advise you being involved, that’s all.’
‘Has she said something?’
‘No.’ Of course she has. ‘So how are the sessions going?’
‘Am I still batshit crazy, you mean?’
‘I mean are you finding them helpful?’
I could tell the truth but it’s easier and ultimately to my benefit to play along. ‘I am, surprisingly. I’m actually feeling pretty good. She’s pretty good. I definitely feel a lot calmer. And come on, be fair, no one’s at the top of their game at five a.m. Not even you.’
No reaction so I change tack. Less front, more fawning.
‘Please, Boss, I feel a connection to the victim now. A responsibility. Please. I really want to work this case. Work for you,’ I add.
Steele purses her lips and sits back. Her chair’s the cast-off of an ex-DCI, a man of Hulk-like proportions, and consequently it makes her look like a pixie. On her desk there’s a mug quoting Shakespeare. ‘And though she be but little, she is fierce.’
‘OK,’ she says finally but there’s a threat in her voice. ‘But you report direct to me, OK, and you tell me the second you feel wobbly. Parnell’s your everyday supervisor, but I want to know everything you’re up to, right? Everything. If I ask when you last had a bowel movement, you tell me, is that clear?’
‘Crystal, crystal,’ I say, smiling and nodding, almost to the point of bowing. ‘So, er, who’s interviewing the husband?’
I figure I might as well push my luck.
‘I’m doing the formal ID with him but I’m going to arrange for him to be interviewed at home. We might get more out of him in familiar surroundings.’
‘Absolutely, Boss. Absolutely.’ I keep smiling and nodding, nodding and smiling. ‘So, er, can I be in on the . . .’
‘Yes,’ she snaps, impatient but with a glint of humour. ‘Parnell actually requested you, if you must know. I think he’s quite smitten.’ She laughs at my horrified face. ‘Relax, Kinsella, don’t flatter yourself. He’s got four sons, that’s all. I think he’s always fancied a surrogate daughter.’
This stirs something inside me too complicated to name, although ‘nice’ might be an uncomplicated way to describe it.
Steele reaches for her internal phone, nods towards the door. ‘Right, hasta luego, Kinsella – or bugger off, whichever you prefer. Get prepped with Parnell, OK, and grab Renée when she’s back, see what she makes of the husband.’ She points the receiver at me. ‘And just so we’re clear, Parnell leads the interview.’
I stand up and give a small salute. Message received, over and out.
Or ‘si, yo comprendo’, whichever she prefers.
5
Thames Ditton Island glistens as evening falls, and despite the reason for our visit, it’s hard not to feel a little festive when faced with the constellation of Christmas lights flickering red, green and white among the dense canopy of trees, illuminating the river and the spectacle of Hampton Court Palace just beyond.
‘God, it’s so pretty,’ I say as we walk cross the narrow footbridge. Parnell treads tentatively, as if he doesn’t quite trust it.
‘It’s an insurer’s wet dream. Look how high the water levels are! Must cost an arm and a leg in premiums.’
When we reach the Lapaine house (small, white, timber-clad in the style of a Swiss chalet and to Parnell’s relief, mounted on stilts), we find we’re not the only visitors. The SOCOs have landed, and boy, they’re not happy. Unlike Parnell, the Island seems to have inspired in me a homespun dream of sharing my breakfast with a kingfisher before heading out for a mid-morning sail, but even I have to admit that it’s an inconvenient way to live. Certainly not ideal for forensic work, with the poor sods having to lug Alice Lapaine’s personal effects – her laptop, diaries, address books, bank statements – from the house, across the river to the mainland, and all against the backdrop of a skin-cracking December chill.
In the midst of this, Thomas Lapaine stands in an open-plan living room looking out onto the water, bereft and confused, a stranger in his own home. A home that hasn’t been decorated since the Seventies if the swirly carpets and woodchip walls are anything to go by.
The man himself strikes a stark contrast to the time-warp house. Slick and urbane with a top-dollar haircut, he looks like the lead in a time-traveller romcom. As Parnell taps the living-room door softly, he turns his head. Red-rimmed eyes bore into ours, begging us to say something that will make him feel just one per cent better.
Parnell begins. ‘Mr Lapaine, I’m Detective Sergeant Luigi Parnell and this is my colleague Detective Constable Cat Kinsella. On behalf of the Metropolitan Police Service, may I offer you our sincerest condolences.’ In the absence of any other appropriate response, Lapaine nods. ‘Following the formal ID you made earlier today, I can now confirm that we’re treating Alice’s death as murder.’
He blinks twice, quickly. ‘Thank you for letting me know.’ There’s a rich, formal tone to his voice. Accentless.
‘Mr Lapaine, can you think of anyone who would want to harm your wife?’
‘Can I think of anyone who would harm my wife?’ he whispers, quietly exasperated by the question, shaking his head at a fixed point on the floor. ‘No one. No one at all. She was so kind, so . . . harmless. I don’t understand how this has happened?’
I’m about to attempt a consoling response when he has a better idea. ‘God, I need a drink.’ He walks towards the kitchen. ‘Would you like a drink? If your friends haven’t emptied the cupboards, of course.’
I’d gladly sell a kidney for some wine right now – 250 ml of pure anaesthesia. Parnell shakes his head so I grudgingly mouth the words, ‘Not for me, either.’ Thomas Lapaine shrugs, grabs a bottle of scotch and a glass and invites us to sit down.
‘We’re sorry about the intrusion, Mr Lapaine,’ says Parnell. ‘However, your wife’s personal effects are crucial to our investigation. You mentioned to DC Akwa, the officer you met this morning, that you hadn’t seen your wife for nearly four weeks, but that this wasn’t a cause for concern. Can you tell us when you last had any sort of contact with her?’
‘December 5th. Two weeks ago. It was my birthday.’ He
takes a sip of scotch – not the kind of slug I’d be taking in his position – then drops to the armchair opposite Parnell. ‘Although, strictly speaking, I didn’t have contact with her. She left a message to say “happy birthday” on our home phone.’
‘You weren’t in?’ I say gently.
‘No,’ he says, barely a whisper. ‘I always have dinner with my mother on my birthday. Claridge’s. It’s become something of a tradition.’
‘Didn’t she try your mobile?’ asks Parnell
‘I’m guessing she wanted to get away with leaving a message. She knew I’d be out, you see.’ He answers before we can ask. ‘Look, Alice was quite complex. Sometimes she just wanted to be alone and I respected that. We respected each other.’
Parnell nods. ‘You told DC Akwa that Alice had a history of disappearing for short periods.’
‘I’m not sure I put it exactly like that. Alice liked her own space, that’s all. There’s a little cottage in Hove she liked to rent sometimes. I told the detective that.’
‘An officer took a statement from the landlady just half an hour ago and she says that Alice hadn’t booked the cottage in well over a year.’
He shrugs. ‘There’s a place near Paignton, too. She just liked a week by the sea occasionally, I can’t always get away because of work and . . .’
Parnell narrows his eyes. ‘So you weren’t concerned that she was gone for longer than a week this time?’
‘No. I knew to let her get things out of her system.’
‘What things?’ asks Parnell, verging on testy.
Lapaine picks up the bottle again and swills the liquid around, momentarily mesmerised. He could be formulating his lie or he could be locked in his own private hell, contemplating how the dice might have rolled if he’d been home when Alice had called, but when he looks up again, he looks sharper. Hardened.
‘Life, Sergeant. Don’t you ever want to run away and be by yourself? Step out of the daily grind once in a while?’
‘Absolutely.’ Parnell nods emphatically. ‘Where do I sign? But I’d tell my wife where I was going, when I’d be back and how often she could expect to hear from me.’