by Caz Frear
‘Not good enough.’
She grips the edge of the worktop and gives me that crazy stare again, eyes wide and threatening. I’m starting to think she might launch herself off at any minute but to my surprise, she starts talking.
‘I think it was the Diamond, oh no, hold on, it was Silks.’ A strip club, basically. ‘I haven’t danced in years but I still go there for a drink, a lot of the girls do. It’s good for business and I know the staff. Anyway, Maryanne was there one evening, we get talking – it was actually nice to meet someone English and a bit more my own age for a change – and she mentions she’s looking for a room and I think, why not? Earn some extra money and have someone a bit older, a bit more sensible, running the show while I’m away. I work abroad occasionally,’ she adds.
‘Running the girls, you mean?’
She lifts her chin. ‘I don’t operate like that.’
‘Look, I’m not from Vice, Saskia, I’m not here for that.’
And even if I was, this is small fry. As long as no one’s trafficked or underage, work away.
She slides down off the worktop, stretches forward for her cigarettes in a long lean pose. ‘How it works is, not every client can afford to stump up for a hotel room every time he wants to get his dick wet, you follow? So I’ve got a few trusted girls who use the spare rooms occasionally, and I take a small percentage. I’m saving up for’ – to my shame I assume she’s going to say ‘bum lift’ or something equally depressing – ‘a camper van. A fully-restored 1960s VW.’ She gazes at her surroundings with not quite disgust, but fatigue. ‘I need to get away from all this for a while.’
‘What did Maryanne tell you about herself?’
She lights the cigarette. ‘Nothing. Just what I told you. That she was looking for somewhere to stay.’
‘And when she was here?’
A deep draw, I recognise it well as the first of the day. ‘Well, it did seem like she was running from something. We didn’t chat much, but we did have a laugh about dodgy clients one day. She mentioned she’d had a few. I got the impression something had happened fairly recently but it was just an impression. I didn’t ask for details.’ A blank look. ‘I wasn’t very interested, to be honest.’
I make a note of this. ‘We’ll need a list of all the people she came into contact with while she was living here. We’ll be as discreet as we can.’
She slams her hand down, raises her voice nought to sixty. ‘Are you fucking deaf, copper? I. Don’t. Know.’
I actually jump. There’s a jerkiness to her mood that’s hard to keep up with. Totally disconcerting.
‘Look,’ she says, a bit nicer, ‘we weren’t “roomies”, OK. We didn’t sit around plaiting each other’s hair and talking about first kisses. She dossed here for around three weeks.’ A thought suddenly occurs to her. ‘And it looks like I won’t get paid for that now, doesn’t it?’
I don’t dignify that. I doubt she expects me to. ‘What about you? Any dodgy clients we need to be aware of. Anyone who could have seen Maryanne and taken a shine?’
That sing-song tone again. ‘No. No one. Contrary to myth, I could count the number of weirdos I’ve had on one hand. Most of what I do is nothing any self-respecting girlfriend wouldn’t do if she could be bothered.’
Nice.
‘Do you own this property?’
Her nose twitches, a nervous tic. ‘No, why?’
‘So you were subletting the room to Maryanne?’
She mutters ‘motherfucker’ and to be fair, I probably deserve it. I only said it to rattle her.
‘I don’t think the owners would mind that much, actually. I’ve lived here for years. I’m a very good tenant.’
‘Why’s that? Because you pay them a percentage of your earnings?’
‘God, no!’ She seems to find this hysterical. ‘They haven’t got a clue what I do. They think I’m a yoga teacher.’
She could be, I think. She’s got the posture if not the temperament.
Parnell comes back into the kitchen, looks straight at Saskia. ‘Miss French, we haven’t been able to recover Maryanne’s bag or phone and it doesn’t look like it’s in her room either. Can you give us a description?’
She purses her lips, pretends to think. ‘Er, her bag might have been black. That help much?’
‘Immeasurably,’ he says drolly. To me, ‘There’s nothing much in there, a few items of clothing, a washbag, some cold and flu tablets.’
‘Yeah, she was a bit under the weather,’ says Saskia, kicking her feet, suddenly all helpful. ‘I told her Ginseng but some people won’t listen.’
Parnell looks at her, slightly baffled, then back to me. ‘Anyway, I’ve requested a Section 8. We’ll need Forensics here ASAP, we need the bedding, her clothes, the lot.’
‘Forensics!’ Saskia flies at Parnell, a whirling dervish of milky-white limbs and red PVC. Parnell steps back just in time which stops her making contact and earning herself a night in the cells, but her eyes are flaming. I think I’d take a punch any day rather than stare down those eyes at close range. ‘Listen, mate,’ she spits, ‘I’ve answered your fucking questions now get out of my fucking flat and take your work experience girl with you.’
Parnell straightens his spine and draws his neck up, just about eye-level. ‘I need to make another phone call, Miss French, so I’m going to leave the work experience girl here to explain to you exactly what’s going on because I don’t think you understand the seriousness of the situation.’
She turns back to me, confidence quickly draining, belligerence giving way to panic. ‘Please. You don’t need a warrant. I’ve given you permission so just take what you want and go. I can’t have my flat crawling with your lot.’
Technically, she’s right. Parnell and I could probably get away with a bit of a treasure hunt without a warrant. But Parnell’s not in the business of getting away with things. He’s a ‘just to be safe’ kind of character.
I try to explain this. ‘It’s not as easy as just taking what we want, Saskia. Forensics will need to go through Maryanne’s room with a fine-tooth comb.’
‘I’d let your “friend” know not to come over,’ shouts Parnell from the hallway. ‘Unless he’s a “friend” you think it’d be worth us talking to.’
She moves to the doorway, hands on hips. ‘Oh, do me a favour and quit the sarcasm, would you? It really doesn’t suit you.’ She draws her eye downwards. ‘Neither does that tie.’
Parnell laughs. ‘Oh, I’ll do you a favour, Miss French. If you say sorry for being rude about my favourite tie, I might just let you get rid of some of the more obvious signs of cocaine use littered around this flat before the cavalry arrives. How’s that sound to you? Fair enough?’
She gives an exaggerated shrug and stalks off into a room, presumably her bedroom, to call her ‘friend.’ I walk into Maryanne’s room, not touching anything, just glancing around at a whole lot of nothing. A small double futon, a cheap-looking nightstand and a clothes rail, that’s it.
I turn back to Parnell.
‘I’m on bloody hold,’ he says, tutting,
‘What are you thinking?’
He trains one ear on what Saskia’s saying, lends the other to me. ‘Something’s definitely off.’
I keep my voice low. ‘Seriously off. I can just about accept that a mousy little pub chef might embark on a double life as a lady-of-the-night. I mean, nothing surprises, right? But there was no semen? No condom lubricant?’ Parnell nods, encouraging me to go on. ‘And this room? I’m not being funny but where’s the racy underwear, the sex toys. There isn’t even a scrap of make-up, just some roll-on and a few face-wipes.’
‘The coke’s not mine.’ Saskia walks back into the hallway, her face illuminated by her phone.
‘Maryanne’s?’ I say, surprised by nothing anymore.
‘No, no, I mean, it’s mine, I suppose. But I don’t use it. I don’t do drugs,’ she adds, proudly. ‘But some clients like it. It, you know, helps . . .’
Parnell ra
ises an eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t know, actually.’
There’s a voice down the line and he ushers us away, back into the kitchen. We assume our positions again, her on the worktop, me on the chair. There’s so much to ask that I can’t think where to begin. Parnell needs to take the lead from here, anyway.
‘We’re going to need the name of the owners of this flat,’ I say, just to break the silence. ‘I appreciate that’s going to be awkward but we have to speak to them.’
‘I’m sorry?’ The muscles in her neck tense. ‘Why?’
‘They own the property, Saskia. Out of courtesy we need to reassure them that any damage caused by the search will be put right.’
‘I’ll tell them,’ she says, quickly. ‘There’s no need.’
‘It doesn’t work like that, I’m afraid.’ I take out my notepad. ‘Name, please.’
She says nothing. Stares at the back wall. But I don’t think it’s petulance, it’s discomfort.
I let out a long sigh. ‘Saskia, do you know how quickly we can find this out? This isn’t Scooby Doo, we’re the police. It’d just be a whole lot easier if you’d tell me.’
‘Nathaniel Hicks,’ she mumbles eventually, then louder, ‘His name is Nate Hicks.’
*
It takes me ten seconds to place the name. Five minutes to confirm it with HQ. Ten minutes to arrange for two uniforms to preserve the scene and it’ll probably take an hour for us to get over there at this time of day.
Nathaniel Hicks.
Owner of this flat and husband of Gina Hicks.
She of the impossibly perfect life on the impossibly perfect Keeper’s Close, where an imperfectly sighted pensioner thought she might possibly have seen Maryanne talking into the intercom.
God bless lovely June of the Donatella Caffé.
15
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 be
mused 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?’