Sweet Little Lies: The most gripping suspense thriller you’ll read this year

by Caz Frear

  Christmas morning. People all over the country waking up to loved ones, sore heads and a mountain of hastily purchased, naff presents. Chocolate for breakfast. Booze before noon. The Dawsons are away so I have the house to myself, just the sounds of my own breath and the banging and hissing of their archaic central heating system for company. I think about turning on the TV but I quite like the silence. The calm before the inevitable storm. The eerie spell’s broken though when sure enough, a little after ten, Finn calls me and in breathless, staccato delivery, lists a load of toys I’ve never heard of and the exact order in which we’re going to play with them. He’s already played Pie Face with Grandad but he’s saving the rest for me.

  Grandad. Such a snuggly, evocative word full of warmth and apple-pie bonhomie. It’s never really suited Dad and he hated it for the first few years. Not exactly the kind of moniker that seduces the type of ladies he sets out to seduce.

  Michael McBride. Handsome widower. Check.

  Successful businessman. Check – if you play fast and loose with the definition of the word ‘business’.

  Manager of contemporary London bar. Check.

  Grandad. Not so check.

  Liar – one hundred per cent check.

  Dangerous?

  At a socially acceptable eleven a.m., I pour myself a glass of wine, then another, and I wait for the edges to blur and for Dad’s features to meld so I can’t see his face.

  Just the strange twist of his mouth as he smiles at Maryanne in the Diner.

  The faint smudge of contempt as they row in Duffy’s field.

  Those grovelling eyes as he tells Jacqui, ‘something’s come up’ and he can’t stay over Monday night.

  I have to do something.

  *

  I’m not sure who jumps higher, her or me.

  Steele stares at me across the incident room, surprise and irritation jostling for pole position on her face. She’s wearing grey slim jeans, an oversized black cardi and a faded Sonic Youth T-shirt that just about subverts everything I thought I knew about DCI Kate Steele.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she says, parking a buttock on the end of Emily’s desk.

  ‘I could ask you the same, Boss.’

  A wry smile. ‘You could, but you answer to me, m’dear, not the other way round.’

  ‘I was passing.’

  It’s not exactly a lie. As the crow flies, the office is pretty much en route to Dad’s and I’ve always loved walking through London on Christmas Day. The apocalyptic stillness of the place. The frost glittering on un-trod paths. I’d managed to walk all the way from home – along Albert Embankment, past the London Eye and over Waterloo Bridge without encountering more than a handful of folk, each one cheerfully bidding me a Merry Christmas where just days ago we’d have ignored each other, probably startled at any form of approach. It wasn’t until I’d hit Theobald’s Road and a large troop spilled towards me, no doubt fresh from the service at St George the Martyr, that I’d had to negotiate my path to make way for other people.

  Steele narrows her eyes. ‘OK, so you were passing and you thought you’d just pop in. Why?’

  ‘I forgot something.’ I stroll over to my desk, willing something to make itself obvious. There’s a bottle of vodka I won in a raffle over a year ago. ‘I’m flat broke,’ I say, picking it up. ‘Thought I could re-gift this. Can’t turn up to my Dad’s empty-handed, can I?’

  She clearly doesn’t believe me but she rolls with it. ‘Think I’ve got the same bottle on my desk actually. Flowers’s annual tombola, right?’ She stands up, ambles in the direction of her office. ‘Well, while you’re here, we might as well have a Christmas snifter. Be a love and grab a couple of mugs.’

  I walk into the kitchen, pick up Parnell’s Arsenal mug and another with the fewest chips. While I’m there I neck a pint of water over the sink, cursing myself for those two glasses of wine earlier.

  I wipe my mouth and walk back to Steele’s office.

  ‘Shall I be mother?’ she says. Steele pours and we clink mugs, each pulling the same face at the sheer awfulness of the drop. ‘Christ, unless your dad’s your worst enemy, I wouldn’t be handing over this cat’s-piss, Kinsella.’

  I should laugh. I try to but it sounds false, even to my ears.

  She sits back, smirking and swivelling in her chair like a cartoon baddie. ‘So cut the crap, why are you really here?’

  Because I feel calm and competent when I’m in this office and right now, more than ever, I need to feel calm and competent. I need to think straight.

  ‘I told you, I’m broke, I wanted to pick up . . .’

  ‘Rubbish. You only got paid two days ago. And do you think I’m blind? I saw the shopping bags under your desk all week.’

  She’s like a bloody hawk but then I swear it’s just with me. She didn’t notice for weeks when Ben got a borderline-prohibited haircut over the summer, and Seth’s foot was in plaster for two whole days before she finally thought to ask why he was limping.

  On a surface level, it drives me nuts – this level of scrutiny she reserves for just me. On a deeper level, it soothes. Reminds me that I don’t need to visit clairvoyants to know that someone’s watching over me.

  ‘So if you haven’t got your dad a present,’ Steele goes on, ‘it’s because you’re disorganised or selfish. Not because you’re broke.’

  ‘You sound just like my sister. She’s always saying I’m disorganised. I’m not though, I just don’t do what she wants, when she wants.’

  Steele screws her nose up. ‘Typical older sister. I can just about stomach mine a couple of times a year, max.’ I open my mouth to ask how she knows my sister’s older but she shuts the subject down. ‘So for the third and final time, Kinsella, why are you here?’

  I grin a little as if I’ve been caught out. ‘Look, I wanted to check out a burglary at the Hickses’, OK?’ It’s not a complete lie. ‘I forgot to do it yesterday before I left and it was niggling at me.’

  She raises a toast. ‘Well, that’s very commendable, but sometimes – only very occasionally, mind – you need to ignore those niggles and concentrate on having a life for a few days. Do you have a life?’

  I look around. ‘Do you?’

  I instantly regret saying it but she doesn’t take offence. ‘I’ve got a lot more to lose than you, m’dear. It’s been ten days and we still don’t have one truly viable suspect. We haven’t found any skeletons in Nate Hicks’ closet yet – well, none that he hasn’t told us about anyway, and he’s got an alibi for the night of the murder – he was in Cardiff on business. We’ll obviously try to pick holes in that, Cardiff’s less than a three-hour drive but . . .’ But, it’s unlikely. ‘There’s still Thomas Lapaine, I suppose, but Abigail What’s-her-Chops is adamant he was with her all night so we need something more on him before we can even think about turning the screw. Unfortunately, there’s a very fine line between diligence and harassment as far as the IPCC’s concerned, and Lapaine’s got form for complaining.’

  Of course – the accusation of police brutality twenty years ago. I’d forgotten about it if I’m honest. That first briefing feels like twenty years ago.

  ‘We do have another suspect,’ I say, sitting up straighter. ‘Saskia French. She had a lot to lose if Alice told Gina she was running a brothel out of the fla—’

  ‘I know, I know, I’ve read your report, and I agree, we definitely need to re-interview her. But look, that’s enough about work, it’s Christmas Day.’

  ‘So you agree, it’s the strongest motive we’ve . . .’

  ‘Sssh.’ She pulls a pretend zip across her mouth. ‘No work, I said.’

  I wait for her to take the lead because I haven’t got the faintest idea what we’re going to talk about. I’m hoping ‘no work’ means we don’t have to dissect my flip-out in the bedsit again but at least that would be terra firma. The only non-work conversations I’ve ever had with Steele have been about the stinginess of the sandwich fillings in
the staff canteen and once about my shoes – a gorgeous pair of maroon suede ankle boots she couldn’t believe only cost thirty pounds.

  ‘Have you got a boyfriend, Kinsella?’

  I smile over the rim of the mug. ‘Nope. Why, do you know someone? I like them over six feet and preferably not still living at home, if that narrows it down.’

  She takes another sip of vodka, winces as it hits her gullet. ‘And do you want a family?’

  ‘Have you been talking to Gina Hicks?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Oh nothing, it’s just she started going on at me about not leaving things too late. I’m only twenty-six, for crying out loud. That’s practically teenage today!’

  ‘I’m not saying you should start a family, I’m asking, do you want one? Or a husband, or a life-partner, or whatever the correct term is these days if you’re not the marrying kind.’

  ‘To be honest, Boss, I don’t know whether I want a fringe at the moment, so I think I’m going to have plead the fifth on the bigger questions.’

  She leans forward, pours the remainder of her vodka into a vase of orchids.

  ‘I’d have liked kids, you know. Never thought I did, but when you get older you see things a bit differently.’ She pauses for a second – not sad, just reflective. ‘But it was the right decision, I’m sure of that. I couldn’t have got to where I am and had kids, it wouldn’t have been fair.’

  I’m enthralled but also slightly embarrassed. This woman-to-woman thing is new territory.

  ‘What I’m trying to tell you, Kinsella, is that it’s true you can’t have it all but you can have some of it. You don’t have to become the dysfunctional cliché. I’ve made damn sure I haven’t.’ She holds a hand up, halts my obvious observation. ‘And yes, I know I’m sitting in this bloody office on Christmas morning, drinking cat’s-piss vodka like something out of a Raymond Chandler novel, but, I have a lovely man waiting for me at home with a bottle of wine, a four-course lunch and if he knows what’s good for him, the Mulberry clutch that I’ve been dropping hints about since April. So you see, I never did the whole two-point-four kids thing but I do have a wonderful marriage. It is possible.’

  I nod politely. I can’t think of what else to do.

  Steele keeps lobbying hard. ‘This job doesn’t have to be your life, Cat. I’ve got nieces and nephews I see regularly. Fantastic friends. I’ve got two chickens and a greenhouse.’ She laughs at my shocked face. ‘Ah see, you thought I was being lazy pouring the vodka into that vase, didn’t you? Well, it’s good for them, keeps them fresh. And it’s all that bloody vodka’s good for.’ I laugh too and it fires her on. ‘What else? I go to a book club sometimes – bet you didn’t know that. Granted, they get a bit narked when they’re discussing themes and imagery and I haven’t got past chapter two but I try.’ She folds her arms. ‘What I’m saying, Kinsella, is you should try to have a life that doesn’t involve death.’

  Maybe I will meet Aiden Doyle for that drink.

  I stand up abruptly, banging my knees on the desk. ‘Look Boss, thanks for the pep talk and all that but I better crack on. My sister will flip out if I don’t get there soon and I do want to check out that burglary at the Hickses’.’

  ‘No need,’ she shoots back. ‘I’ve already done it. 14th September 2014. Mainly gadgets, a few bits of jewellery, some silverware.’ A pause. ‘Who even has “silverware”?’

  Of course she’s already done it. Kate Steele – green-fingered, bookwormish, chicken-owning DCI Extraordinare is always one step ahead.

  I reckon she’d have made a great mum.

  19

  Christmas Day at McAuley’s Old Ale House.

  Opening for two hours over lunch and badgering old men, who only normally removed their caps for funeral corteges and the Irish national anthem, to don metallic paper hats and play whatever sappy board game I’d got from Santa. Beating Reg at Hungry Hippos then wiping the floor with Sligo Tom at Buckaroo. Mum and Dad flat out serving, not watching me close enough. Getting bloated on fizzy pop then leaving half my lunch.

  Mum getting angry and Dad getting blamed.

  Opening up again in the evening. A younger crowd this time. Dad’s friends and their lesser-spotted wives, drenched in new musky perfumes and flaunting new bling.

  Being sent to bed but then creeping back down. Sitting on the stairs and watching all the dancing, the laughing, the fighting, the crying.

  McAuley’s isn’t opening today.

  All part of Jacqui’s ‘proper family day’ treaty, no doubt. A treaty I’ve already flouted by turning up ten minutes before lunch.

  Dad snares me at the kitchen door. The attention’s suffocating and feels more like a chokehold than a bear-hug. It also seems a little left-field given the last time I saw him I accused him of sleeping with Maryanne Doyle. I’d expected him to be civil, of course. Maybe to feign a little affection even, if only for Finn’s sake. But there’s an intensity to the way he’s holding me, the way he’s breathing me in like I’m a newborn.

  I daren’t breathe him in. He reeks of something awful – a chemical lemony scent, like bug-spray.

  Jacqui, flushed from the kitchen, clocks my face. ‘Yeah, I know, it’s disgusting. It’s called Silver Man. Finn chose it.’

  ‘Because Grandad’s got silver hair,’ says Finn, hugging my thigh as tight as a tourniquet.

  Dad looks down, ruffles his hair. ‘Yeah, thanks for reminding me, champ.’ A bit quieter. ‘I’ll wash it off in a bit, he probably won’t notice.’

  Which is probably true. He certainly never notices that Auntie Cat and Grandad Mike barely say two words to each other.

  ‘Drink?’ asks Dad, loosening his grip and easing me out of my coat. ‘We have red, white, Prosecco, Aperol . . .’

  ‘That was my choice,’ shouts Jacqui, her head practically swallowed by the oven. ‘Apparently it’s all the rage in Australia.’

  ‘So’s skin cancer.’ Noel’s voice lurks behind the kitchen door. I should probably peer round and offer some kind of festive pleasantry but I’m loath to wish him a Happy Anything.

  ‘Wrong actually,’ says Jacqui. ‘The Aussies are a lot more sun-savvy than us Brits.’

  ‘A white wine, please.’ I say to Dad, keeping it civil but clipped.

  I follow the sounds of Finn whooping at Super Mario and find myself standing in the living room. It’s less stark in here than the rest of the flat and my face smiles down at me from every surface.

  Soaked on the log flume at Alton Towers.

  Decked out like a fat fairy for my Holy Communion – a pair of rosary beads in one hand, a packet of Haribo in the other.

  Me and Jacqui dressed up as witches for Halloween.

  That one kills me. We both look so happy and so, so pleased with ourselves in our cute little costumes that it makes me want to weep. It makes me want to go into the kitchen and tell her that I’m truly sorry I didn’t get here earlier like she wanted.

  But I don’t. I’ve only got the strength for one argument today.

  Jacqui’s done a stellar job, right down to the gingerbread men garnishes bobbing away at the top of our champagne flutes. Dad sits at the head of the table – perfectly decorated in reds, greens and golds – and I position myself two seats away. Ash stations himself in between, happy to play the human firewall.

  And it’s OK for a while.

  Tolerable, at least.

  Ash keeps things interesting with a story about a colleague whose girlfriend jilted him at the altar twice, over two consecutive Christmases, and wonderful Finn acts like a prism, casting rainbows among the rumbling black clouds. The food’s complicated enough to warrant long, time-killing explanations from Jacqui about how it came to be on the table. And the crackers are fun, I suppose. I win a giant paperclip.

  ‘So you’re working on that case – the Doyle girl, right?’

  It’s Noel that brings it up. Whatever happens now, I can always point to the fact that it was Noel, not me, who tore open the can of worm
s and dumped them all over the Christmas table.

  ‘There’s a lot of people working on it,’ I say, flatly.

  ‘Have you arrested anyone?’ he says, eyes glinting. ‘It’s usually the husband, isn’t it? Bet it’s the husband.’

  ‘Can we talk about something else?’ I tap Jacqui with my foot under the table. ‘Hey, have you still got that Saturday girl in the shop, Jacqs, the one with the crazy eyebrows?’

  She taps me back, a little harder. ‘Ah, come on, Cat, give us the scoop. We knew her, for God’s sake!’

  Dad stares blankly but there’s a microscopic flutter in his eye – the kind of thing you only notice when you know someone inside out. When you’re alert to every slight mood shift.

  ‘Well, I suppose we didn’t know her.’ Jacqui loads more carrots onto Finn’s plate – a futile endeavour. ‘I remember her though, I hung about with her a few times. You probably don’t remember Cat, you were only a kid.’

  ‘I do, actually.’ I look straight at Dad. ‘She was gorgeous. You’d hardly forget her in a hurry.’

  Jacqui laughs, elbows Noel. ‘Do you remember, Geri had just left the Spice Girls and Cat reckoned Maryanne was going to replace her, that’s why she’d disappeared.’

  I don’t remember this at all, not one misty memory of ever saying that. And I’d have staked my life on being able to recount every single thing that happened that day.

  What other details could I be missing?

  Noel grunts. ‘Didn’t think she was that fit actually. Average, I’d say.’

  Ash laughs. ‘Oh, you’ve turned down better, have you?’

  ‘Too right I have, mate. You want to see some of the Spanish women, some of the dancers at the club.’ He kisses the tips of his fat gnarly fingers. ‘Precioso.’

  ‘Very good, Noel’ I say, giving him a slow handclap. ‘That the sum of your Spanish? Not a lot of need for prolonged conversation where you work, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh, I get by,’ he says, smiling savagely. ‘How about Que te jodan? That means “Fuck you.”’