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

by Caz Frear

  ‘Mainly London?’ I ask, just to say something. Asking questions makes me feel a little less isolated.

  ‘Mainly, but the big networks always spread it out a bit. That way, they exploit the fragmented nature of our so-called “great” British policing structure. It was definitely fragmented in those days, anyway.’

  ‘So what happened to knock him off his perch?’ asks Flowers.

  ‘SOCA, that’s what happened.’ Serious Organised Crime Agency. ‘Tony Blair’s vow to make life hell for the “Mr Bigs”. Mackie got a tip-off we were closing in on him, did a flit. Amsterdam for a while, apparently, then Spain. Not a peep out of him since.’

  ‘I suppose it was one of us that tipped him off?’ says a world-weary Flowers.

  Parnell rubs his hands. ‘A high-ranking politician, if you believe the rumours.’

  ‘Bit of a risk coming back to the UK?’ suggests Craig.

  ‘He’s old, terminally ill. Not got a lot to lose, I suppose.’

  Maryanne. This is about Maryanne, not some washed-up gangster in a Santa suit.

  I look at Parnell. ‘Boss, this is all very interesting but what are we saying? Maryanne was mixed up in some sort of organised crime thing? And anyway, Patrick Mackie had retired, right?’

  ‘His sort never retire, they just retreat into the background. I mean, those nail bars that Nate Hicks supposedly owns. They’ve got Patrick Mackie written all over them. Nail bars, tanning salons, what have you – classic fronts for money laundering.’

  Renée shouts over. ‘The Hickses both came up clean as a whistle though, nothing on the PNC. Nothing for a Gina Mackie either.’

  ‘They’re involved,’ says Parnell without a shadow of doubt. ‘Somehow. They have to be. We just have to pray Forensics turns something up at the house and we can worry about the “why?” later. For now, we just need something to hang our hat on. How are we going on Leo Hicks, Cat?’

  Honest answer – we aren’t.

  ‘I’ve been on to Passport Control in Vienna. He definitely entered the country on Sunday 28th so maybe they are telling the truth about that and it’s nothing? Maybe he was sent to Saskia’s with some sort of message, he did his Billy-big-balls thing, and then he left? I managed to get hold of his head teacher – you know, in case the concert was a school thing and he could give me a location, but apparently it’s not. First he’d heard of it, actually. Kept going on and on about what a talent Leo is and how they’re hoping he’ll get into the Royal College of Music.’

  ‘We’ll find him,’ says Parnell, ‘it’s a matter of time. Even if Nate and Gina have stopped talking, we’ve got their phones now and they must have been in contact with him, surely? They both seem pretty hot on deleting texts but once Digital get digging, we should get something.’

  ‘I’ve got something!’ Across the other side of the room, Seth slams the phone down then struts a victory walk across the floor. ‘Saskia French.’ Parnell reaches for his car keys. ‘No, no, don’t get too excited, Boss, it’s not a sighting – it’s someone who thinks she worked with her in the late Nineties/early Noughties at an abortion clinic in Camden. She knew her as Sarah Finch though – very inventive – and she was a receptionist/admin type. They fired her early 2001 when she was caught taking sensitive information home, basically clients’ personal details. They thought she was maybe planning to blackmail some of them. Apparently, they didn’t call the police at the time because they didn’t want the drama – it’s hard enough for some women to visit them without hearing about that type of thing – but anyway, she just thought it was worth us knowing that if Saskia is this Sarah Finch, she’s always been a bit of a shady character.’

  ‘So she’s not certain it’s her?’ I say, raining on Seth’s parade which absolutely isn’t my intention.

  ‘Fairly sure but she wouldn’t “put the house on it”, were her exact words. I think it’s the same person though. She was able to give me a lot of physical detail – well, as much as you can fifteen years later – and I’ve just cross-checked with the extra description Naomi Berry gave to Steele for the TV appeal.’

  ‘What extra description?’ I ask.

  I didn’t actually watch it. Couldn’t bring myself to.

  ‘Distinguishing features, that sort of thing.’

  ‘She’s not far off six feet, that’s fairly distinguishing,’ says Craig.

  Seth nods. ‘Indeed, but she’s also a bit of a tattoo and piercing junkie apparently. My caller said this Sarah Finch used to have several piercings and tattoos. She’d get a little contrary when they’d ask her to cover them up on reception. That fits with what Naomi Berry told Steele about how when Saskia’s “off-duty,” she usually wears a ring in her nose, one in her eyebrow.’ He points to the deep groove under his bottom lip. ‘And a stud just here.’

  An ice-cold sensation sweeps the surface of my skin. Seth’s voice fades to nothing and a sharper voice comes into unwelcome focus: Noel.

  ‘At a rough guess, I’d say he’s shagging that sweet-ass with the lip-stud, the one who comes in here.’

  The one who stood with her back to me in McAuley’s. Tribal tattoos snaking all the way down her spine.

  What had Dad said about her?

  ‘She’s in her thirties, actually, and anyway she’s just a friend.’

  Dad knows Saskia.

  I wait until Seth’s finished then pull Parnell to one side. Tell him I need to pop out for a while. Say I know it’s not ideal but I’m not feeling great. Nothing major, no dramas, but I need some fresh air and maybe a trip to the chemist. Just an hour, I say, tops.

  Of course, he says, no problem. Take as long as I need. Come to think of it, he thought I was looking a bit ropey.

  I thank him, say he’s the best boss ever, say I’ll just finish my notes on the call with Leo’s head teacher and then I’ll head off.

  I don’t say there’s a chance I might never be back.

  26

  I sign out a pool car and head straight for McAuley’s, fairly sure that Dad won’t be there but still inclined to check. Parnell’s definitely rubbed off on me over the past six months.

  ‘Time and patience got the snail to America, kiddo.’

  ‘Every dead end is another box ticked.’

  I picture his face in a few hours’ time. Those kind, smiley eyes clouded by betrayal and disappointment. The thought turns my heart to wet sand.

  I park across the street. There’s no light upstairs, no sign he’s here at all, but I head over anyway. Argue with some jobsworth on the door who says I need a ticket to come in. My warrant card twitches in my pocket but I try out my daughter credentials first. Jobsworth doesn’t believe me though so I tell him to get Xavier. Cross my fingers that a sexy Spanish barman remembers a plain girl in a parka from nearly a fortnight ago.

  He does, and I’m in.

  ‘He’s not here though,’ he says, frowning. ‘I thought he was with you?’

  ‘Me?’ The absurdity of it actually makes me laugh, despite everything.

  Xavier calls to another barman, checks he hasn’t picked it up wrong.

  Other Barman confirms it. ‘Nah, he’s not been here for days. He’s away with family. Skiing in Val d’Isere, I think?’

  Dad took us to Val d’Isere once. Mum said it was important to learn how to ski now I was at posh school. I wasn’t exactly a natural though and I felt self-conscious the whole time. My single happy memory is of the caramel apple crêpes I used to scoff after each and every meal.

  But Dad’s not in Val d’Isere now.

  The New Year’s Eve roads are quiet as I shoot north into Hertfordshire, and I rocket up to Radlett in less than an hour, only nudging the speed limit twice. All the way, I get green light after green light and gracious drivers wave me out of side-roads. I should be pleased – I’m not exactly a patient driver at the best of times – but instead I have this burning, twisting feeling that the world’s conspiring to get me there as fast as possible and I’m terrified of finding out the reason w
hy.

  The house is in darkness. The cul-de-sac’s one and only party-pooper. Even Kevin Farrow, Kevin ‘Killjoy’ Farrow as Dad used to call him, appears to be having some sort of get-together and a glut of cars are parked bumper-to-bumper around the horseshoe of the street.

  I can’t see Dad’s car though.

  Could I have got this wrong?

  I go through the gate and walk down the side of the house, the narrow space between the kitchen extension and the garage where I used to smoke crafty fags and text even craftier boys. I peer through the garage window but again, no car.

  My phone vibrates: Parnell.

  Hicks’ brief still having a ’mare on M3. Interview in morning. Don’t come back if you feel poorly, think we’ve got enough cover.

  SMS 19.36 p.m.

  I tap out a ‘fanks!’ and thumbs-up emoji. This buys me a bit of time at least.

  It’s drizzling now. Freezing rain, not quite sleet. All the doors at the back are double-locked and the kitchen blinds are closed. I look for evidence in the bins that’s someone’s been here recently but there’s nothing. Nothing in any of them. Just a frantic spider in the recycling bin, dizzying itself in circles.

  I know the feeling, mate.

  I take the spider in my hand and flick it gently onto the path, wondering if I’ve just rescued it or made its predicament worse. Suffocation versus hypothermia? Two brutal ends of a particularly shitty stick.

  The analogy isn’t lost on me as I watch it scuttle away.

  I look at my phone and scroll for Dad’s number. I’d wanted the element of surprise but this is getting me nowhere so there’s nothing else for it, I’m going to have to do things the long-winded way. I’m going to have to call him, hope he answers, ask him very nicely where he is and then ask even more nicely if he’ll talk to me. I fully expect to get his voicemail – that deep, cheerful voice saying, ‘Bollocks, I’ve missed you. Leave a message’ – but to my surprise it rings.

  And it’s ringing inside the house.

  I vault towards the patio doors, hammering my palms against the glass. ‘Dad, it’s me. I know you’re in there.’

  Nothing. Somewhere up the street a bass thumps out a generic dance hook.

  ‘Let me in,’ I shout into the dark. ‘I know you know Saskia. And that she knew Maryanne.’ More nothing. I keep the volume but change my tone. ‘Listen, it’s either me or my colleagues, Dad. And they’ll be baying for blood, I just want to understand.’

  I’ve no idea whether I mean this or not.

  I dial his phone again. And again. When it goes to voicemail the third time, I walk over to the rockery, now neglected, and pick up the largest stone I can find. Standing by the back door, I take three breaths to consider the consequences of what I’m about to do. An alarm could go off? Would Dad actually hurt me?

  I’m about to lose my nerve when the door clicks open.

  His silhouette’s enough to shock me. The heavy droop of his shoulders and the hang of his head. He looks smaller, somehow. Diminished. To think I’ve spent most of my life kicking against all his swagger and the gangster-lite bravado. Now I can hardly look at this sunken version.

  Just a scared middle-aged man, hiding out in the dark.

  ‘You can’t stay long,’ he says, retreating into the house. ‘It might not be safe.’

  I step into the kitchen, instinctively reaching left for the light. He grabs my arm and pulls me with him. ‘What do you mean, “not safe?’’’ I try to shake him off. ‘What’s going on, Dad? What’s with the blackout?’

  ‘In the study,’ he says, shoving me forward.

  I walk into the so-called ‘study.’ The small enclave at the centre of the house, accessible through the dining room on one side, the ‘good’ living room on the other.

  No windows to the outside world. So no announcements to the outside world that anyone’s here either.

  And no ventilation. The air’s sour and smoky.

  ‘It’s all right during the day,’ he says, sitting down behind an oak desk that was bought purely for show. ‘I just stay away from the main windows. But at night, it’s the only room where I feel safe turning the lights on.’

  I stay standing, sizing him up, waiting for an explanation. When it doesn’t come I sit down, taking the chair opposite. Committing myself physically to however long this is going to take.

  ‘Just tell me, Dad. Tell me what you did, or what you’ve done, and I promise things will feel a whole lot better.’

  It’s the oldest trick in the book, of course. ‘Interrogation for Dummies’. My soft voice, the bedtime-story tone, I’ve done it countless times – ‘Come on now . . . I know you’re a good guy . . . you’ll feel a whole lot better when get it off your chest . . .’

  He doesn’t fall for it though so I revert to basics. The ‘Specific-Closed’ I think they called it at Hendon.

  ‘Do you know where Saskia is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know if she’s in danger?’

  Silence.

  ‘Did you hurt Maryanne?’ My mouth won’t form the word ‘kill’.

  He gives me a look so heartsick that I swear I feel the heavy sadness that’s crushing him. For a second I can actually taste his shame.

  ‘No,’ he says, a mere whisper.

  ‘Then who did?’

  His eyes fix on a photo, just to the right of my head. One of those expensive family portraits that make it look like you all like each other.

  ‘It was supposed to be a one-off,’ he says eventually, sighing deeply. ‘Just Maryanne. But it spiralled out of control. I didn’t want what happened . . . I’m not a bad person, Catrina . . . I know you think I am, but I’m not . . . nor was Maryanne, really . . .’

  I say nothing. He’s trying to convince himself, not me.

  ‘I was in deep shit, you see. I owed money to this . . . well, this guy you don’t want to owe money to, let’s just put it that way. I was playing a lot of poker back then. Underground poker, backroom stuff. Winning big sometimes, losing big more often. Anyway, this guy wanted his money back. One of his men approached Jacqui, you know. Stopped her in the street, told her how pretty she was, gave it all that “you could be a model” bullshit.’ He laughs, sadly. ‘Christ, she was hyper that night, do you remember?’ I do. Hyper’s not the word I’d use. Try insufferable. ‘I knew it was him playing games though. I knew what the threat meant.’

  ‘Patrick Mackie?’

  A quick nod. If he’s surprised I know the name, he doesn’t show it. ‘So I needed to get away for a while. Get us all away. Lie low. And your mum felt guilty that she hadn’t been home for years – I mean, we hadn’t been back since you were born – so I thought two birds, one stone, why not? Just for a few weeks while I worked out what to do.’

  ‘So you were always a fuck-up, Dad. That really isn’t big news. What’s it got to do with Maryanne?’

  He picks up a bottle of something clear; gin, maybe vodka, I can’t see the label. ‘We need to get one thing straight, sweetheart. I never laid a hand on Maryanne, then or now. That isn’t what this is about.’

  I stay stock still. ‘OK, I’m listening.’

  Something unlocks and the words spew out. Maybe if I’d offered to hear him out years ago, instead of all the teenage histrionics and grown-up passive-aggression, we might have got to this point sooner.

  ‘It started with that bloody barmaid in Grogan’s.’ He shakes his head bitterly. ‘We had a drunken kiss one night – and that’s all it was, Catrina, a stupid drunken kiss, I could hardly remember it the next day. But Maryanne saw us. She was a sharp one, I’ll give her that – had a bit of scandal on everyone and wasn’t afraid to use it if it benefited her. Anyway, she threatened to tell your mum what she’d seen and well . . . me and your mum were on a sticky wicket already, and on top of all the shit with Mackie, I just didn’t need it.’

  ‘So how did blackmailing you benefit her? What did she want?’

  He cl
oses his eyes, sighs again. ‘She was pregnant.’

  I knew this, of course. We’ve suspected it ever since the post-mortem and Hazel O’Keefe more or less confirmed it yesterday. How can that only be yesterday? But hearing it from Dad adds an ominous weight to it. He says the word ‘pregnant’ like it means everything. Like it’s the reason we’re here. The reason we’ve spent a lifetime splintering each other’s hearts.

  ‘She said she’d keep schtum if I gave her a few hundred quid and a lift to Dublin that Saturday, to the ferry. She wanted an abortion, you see, she had to get to Liverpool.’

  I remember that Saturday. Dad gone since lunchtime, Mum perming Gran’s hair. Jacqui and Noel off somewhere. ‘Gallivanting,’ Gran called it.

  I was so bored that day I actually did my maths homework.

  ‘So I said yes . . . eventually. What else could I do?’

  ‘You could have told Mum? I mean, what was one more . . . especially if it was just a drunken kiss.’

  He cuts me off quickly. ‘But you see, I felt sorry for Maryanne too, even though she was a crafty one. Jonjo Doyle was a nasty little shit, especially after a few pints, and I knew the beating she’d get when he found out she was up the spout.’ He looks at me for a long second, trying to communicate something. I think he’s begging me not to judge him too harshly. ‘So I hit on an idea, see? The worst fucking idea of my life, sweetheart, but you’ve no idea how stressed out I was about Patrick Mackie and for the first time in weeks, I could actually see a way out.’

  He pushes the bottle towards me, doesn’t offer me a glass. I want to say no but it might steady my heartbeat.

  I drink straight from the bottle. Neat white rum.

  ‘Patrick Mackie was a nasty, greedy bastard.’ He points a finger. ‘Now I wasn’t involved in this at all, you understand, but I knew he had this racket going – paying prostitutes a few thousand quid to get pregnant and then selling the babies on the black market.’

  There were rumours he was involved in people trafficking . . .

  ‘He made good money of it too. There’s plenty of desperate people with deep pockets who can’t have kids. Problem was, half the time the girls were addicts. They’d promise to stop using but they never did, and then the babies were born addicted, or with low birth weights, what have you, and I think it was getting to the point where he was wondering if it was worth the hassle. I had nothing to do with this, you understand,’ he repeats. ‘I just heard a lot of things, knew a lot of people . . .’