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

by Caz Frear

  ‘Asked you what?’ asks Renée.

  She looks downwards. ‘If I’d be up for passing on the details of any girls booked in for abortions, or consultations, who I thought might be wobbling, especially Irish girls. She said she knew some guy who’d pay big for that kind of information. I worked on reception, you see – booked the girls in, watched them. You get to know the signs.’

  ‘And you agreed to do this?’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘Well, I didn’t exactly say “yeah, no problem” the first time she asked, but I was skint, OK. Minimum wage had just come in, literally that week, and I was getting a pay rise to three pounds sixty an hour – when I told Maryanne, she burst out laughing. That kinda sealed it.’

  Parnell nods, all compassion and understanding. ‘And that was it? You’d pass on the details, they’d bump up your bank balance?’

  ‘In the beginning. But then I started to learn more about how it all worked, more about Maryanne, how she’d sold her baby, started up a “business” with this guy. It just seemed like she had the life of Riley, living in this flat in the centre of town, earning a few thousand a month just for babysitting a couple of pregnant girls. I mean, I soon learned it wasn’t “babysitting”, it was guarding, but at the time it sounded amazing and I wanted in. So I said to her, surely if there were two “babysitters” they could have more girls, right? She said she’d speak to her “guy”.’

  ‘This guy’s name?’ asks Renée, flat, expressionless.

  She hesitates, knows she’s about to go over the top. ‘His name’s Patrick Mackie, but I think she spoke to his daughter, Gina. Gina was more involved on a daily basis. She delivered the babies too.’

  Renée’s voice is stern. ‘For the benefit of the tape, you’re referring to Gina Hicks, your landlady.’

  Saskia leans over, mimics Renée. ‘For the benefit of the tape, that’s right.’ She smiles to herself, cracking the centre of her bottom lip, drawing blood.

  ‘Carry on,’ says Renée, not rising to it.

  ‘Yeah, so Maryanne speaks to Gina. Few weeks later I’ve got the life of Riley too. Although I had to keep my job at the clinic, of course.’

  Parnell leans in. ‘So let me get this straight. You’d give the details to Maryanne. She’d approach a girl, someone who didn’t seem that sold on having an abortion, and she’d make them an offer they couldn’t refuse? Is that how it worked?’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t exactly that straightforward but in a nutshell, yeah. It was a good sell – a nice long stay in a luxury London flat – it was luxury back then – you got all your needs catered for and then eight grand at the end of it. I mean, the sell had to be good. The girls had to lie to their families about where they were for months on end, it wasn’t easy. But then eight grand’s a lot of money. Maryanne used to brag she’d been paid ten grand but Mackie wouldn’t pay that again, not when he had “overheads” to factor in. That’s what he used to call me and Maryanne – fucking “overheads”.’

  Parnell puffs his cheeks out. ‘Risky business. Didn’t Maryanne worry about someone telling her to bugger off and going to the police?’

  ‘Some did tell her to piss off, but they were hardly likely to blab. If they weren’t interested they just wanted to get it over and done with as quietly as possible, they weren’t going to start making big noises about the fact they were in England for an abortion. And I mean, she didn’t approach that many. I got good at knowing who looked good for it so our hit rate was high.’ Hands open, explanatory-mode. ‘Like, it didn’t matter how wobbly they were, if they were too young I knew they’d have a hard time getting away with the seven-to-eight-month disappearing act so we didn’t bother. Too old and they could be a bit too feisty, knew their own minds more, not as easy to control.’ She catches herself. ‘God that sounds fucking awful, doesn’t it? But I was nineteen, I’d had a shit life up until then and I liked the money.’

  Parnell’s voice is soft and steady. ‘Look, we’re not here to judge you, Saskia. Don’t flog yourself on our account, just keep going. You’re doing great.’ She gives a grateful nod. ‘OK, so when a girl agreed, what happened?’

  ‘We’d send them to “host families” for a few days while we got things sorted. Some clinics do that, you know – for women who can’t afford the few nights in a B&B – so Maryanne thought it made it sound a bit more legitimate if we did it too. ’Course, the “families” were just people on Mackie’s payroll, it was a big farce. Soon as we could though, we’d move them into the flat.’

  Renée picks up a sheet of paper. ‘12c Ophelia Mansions, Frederick Street, King’s Cross. Where you currently still reside?’

  She nods, flashes a sarky smile. ‘Yes. Where I still reside.’

  ‘And what, you’d literally hot-house these girls until they gave birth?’

  She mouths the word ‘hot-house’, ponders it. ‘I suppose you could call it that. But it wasn’t exactly the workhouse. Only the best food, you know – Gina, she was a GP, she was obsessed with nutrition – and then there was Sky TV, every channel going, and basically whatever they wanted, books, magazines, fancy toiletries – and some of them really took the piss with the brands they’d ask for – me or Maryanne would get it for them. Usually me as I was out more because of my job.’

  Parnell rubs his chin. ‘So you’re saying they never left the flat? Forget nutrition, that can’t be healthy?’

  ‘Maryanne took them for walks sometimes, once she trusted them.’

  Renée’s look is pure ice. ‘Like dogs?’

  Saskia bolts upright in her chair, jabs a finger towards Renée. ‘She didn’t have to do that, you know? Gina never insisted. It was an act of kindness.’ Parnell smiles, smooths things over. ‘’Course she wanted to get out too. She’d take the girls for picnics on warmer days – just to Leamington Square Gardens, it wasn’t far. She bloody loved it there, said it was exactly how she’d imagined London to be, all posh Georgian houses and old-fashioned streetlamps.’ She pauses, catches a tight little breath. ‘That’s where she was found, wasn’t it?’

  Parnell nods reverently.

  Her jaw tightens. ‘Bastards. I bet that was a warning to everyone to keep their mouths shut. Any girl who passed through the flat would have got the message loud and clear – they all loved the gardens, see, it was the only place they ever got out to. We were all pretty much prisoners, we just didn’t see it that way.’ She smiles and it’s a genuine smile, no side-helping of sarcasm. ‘Me and Maryanne did sneak out sometimes though, at night, left the girls on their own. Turnmills was a favourite, it was less than a mile, you see. We went as far as Heaven once though, over by Charing Cross. It was risky but it was worth it, you know. Just to be able to do normal things for a few hours – dancing, flirting . . . not sitting in night after night, watching repeats of Friends with a load of hormonal women.’

  ‘What about men?’ asks Parnell, leaning back again. ‘Any male visitors?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  I put my hand to the back of my neck – not clammy, red-hot.

  Don’t be defensive, I will her. Don’t flat-out deny it.

  But Saskia’s a smart cookie, she knows they’re asking for a reason. ‘There were a few around occasionally, just Mackie’s associates. The odd party, or drop-off.’

  ‘Drop-off?’ asks Renée. ‘Stuff for the girls?’

  A hollow laugh. ‘Not exactly. They’d store drugs in the flat sometimes. Money. Weapons occasionally, although Maryanne kicked off about that. I can’t remember names, though. I can barely remember faces.’

  ‘Well, this was hanging on your wall.’ Parnell slides the photo over, points at the men. ‘Jog any memories?’

  She stares for a long time, poker-faced. ‘Nope,’ she says, pushing it back. ‘It was a long time ago. I forgot that photo was even there, to be honest. I hardly ever go in that room. God, I was gorgeous back then,’ she says, changing the subject, looking to Renée. ‘You don’t realise it at the time, do you? You don’t app
reciate it.’

  Renée stays stony-faced while Parnell taps his palms on the table – a chirpy move, almost like a drum roll. ‘So all good things come to an end, as they say. How long were you and Maryanne involved?’

  She answers instantly, like it’s just yesterday. ‘Maryanne took off for Brighton early 2001 – she was always going on about wanting to live by the sea. I kept going for a bit but it was too much for just one person. I started making mistakes at the clinic, being too obvious, I suppose. Anyway, I got fired when they caught me with clients details on my phone.’

  ‘The Mackies must have been angry at Maryanne for leaving?’

  ‘Yeah, but not as much as I thought. I think Mackie was wanting to wind things down anyway. Bigger fish to fry, easier scams to run. And I reckon Gina’d lost interest – don’t know if she ever had any interest, to be fair – she was just following Daddy’s orders. She was like a robot.’

  ‘So is that what happened with Maryanne?’ There’s a taunt in Renée’s tone, I wonder how Saskia will take it. ‘She lost interest in earning lots of money for eating picnics and watching Sky TV?’

  Saskia blinks slowly, doesn’t react. ‘She lost faith in what she was doing.’

  ‘Faith?’ echoes Parnell.

  ‘Yes, faith. Look, I’ll hold my hands up, I did it for the money, pure and simple, but Maryanne – now I’m not saying she wasn’t a greedy cow, ’cos she was – but she did genuinely think we were doing a good thing. Giving someone a good option. I used to take the piss out of her, laugh at her fairy godmother act, but to be fair she’d been through it, not me. She knew what a lifeline it had been.’

  ‘Sure, sure,’ says Parnell, nodding quickly. ‘So what changed? Why’d she lose faith?’

  She stares at the table, bites her lip. Blood pools at the centre again but she doesn’t seem to notice. ‘Something happened, late 2000, coming up to Christmas. There was this girl, her name was Kristen. Nice girl, but she kept chopping and changing her mind throughout the pregnancy, she was high-maintenance, a pain in the arse, really. Maryanne was always having to talk her around – I left that side to Maryanne – like I say, she’d been through it, not me. Anyway, after Kristen gave birth, that was it, she was keeping her baby and that was the end of it. It was the first time it’d actually happened. Maryanne was shitting herself, expecting Gina to go mental . . .’

  ‘And she didn’t?’ asks Parnell

  Her face sours. ‘No, because she just walked into the flat and took it anyway. Literally just lifted the baby out of the Moses basket with Kristen sitting there screaming.’

  Every hard edge I’ve tried to cling on to begins to dissipate, liquefy.

  Renée adjusts her ponytail – beats punching the table, I guess. ‘Surely this Kristen went to the police then?’

  Saskia looks from the table to the floor and her voice becomes a mumble. ‘No way, she wouldn’t dare. We had their contact details from the clinic, remember? She told Kristen in no uncertain terms, “We know where you live, where your family lives.” I mean, that was always sort of implied once a girl had given birth and she was getting ready to leave the flat, just to keep her in line, you know, but it was the first time I’d heard it said so blatantly.’

  ‘What did you take it to mean?’ says Renée.

  Saskia throws Renée a ‘you-work-it-out’ stare.

  ‘That they’d harm her family if she said anything?’ offers Parnell.

  Saskia shrugs. ‘I don’t know that for sure. Harm her family, make trouble for her family, I dunno? I just know you wouldn’t want to risk finding out.’

  ‘And this got to Maryanne?’ asks Parnell. ‘Didn’t fit with her fairy godmother image?’

  She nods, keeps her gaze on the floor. ‘It gets worse. Gina, after she’d effectively threatened Kristen, says it’s our job to bring her back into line, make her realise it’s all for the best. So she gives us £500 to go up to Oxford Street and buy her some treats. Fucking treats. Few hours later, we walk back into the flat, Kristen’s slit her wrists in the bath and we’re standing there with fucking Topshop bags.’ The memory pales her. ‘I was gutted but seriously, Maryanne was inconsolable. I watched her for weeks afterwards. I was worried she’d slit her wrists too, the way she was moping around. But she didn’t, she just took off. Didn’t even say bye, just left a two-line note. “Gone to Brighton, Have a nice life,” pretty much. It hurt, you know? We’d been through a lot.’

  ‘Was Kristen dead?’ says Parnell – his tone light, his body language relaxed.

  Minimise the crime, keep them talking – ‘Interrogation for Dummies: Intermediate level’.

  ‘No. She was in a really bad way but she had a pulse.’

  ‘Did you call an ambulance?’ asks Renée.

  ‘We called Gina.’ Saskia goes from pale to a deep blush – an appreciation of how piss-poor that sounds, at least. ‘Some guy was there within minutes. Gavin something. Like I say, I don’t remember names. He told me and Maryanne to get out.’

  ‘Do you know what happened to Kristen? Did she live?’

  ‘I don’t know. Neither of us could face asking.’ She looks away, loses herself in the oppressive grey walls. ‘Jesus, she was so young.’

  ‘So were you.’ Renée’s tone stays cool but there’s compassion in the statement. Saskia’s eyes well up. ‘You must have thought of taking off too?’ adds Renée, back to business. ‘What kept you there? What’s kept you there this whole time?’

  ‘I did, at first, but then I was flavour of the month, you see. The one who stuck around. So once the baby thing wound down, Gina said I could stay on for a bit while I found my feet. All I had to do was “entertain” Patrick Mackie’s friends now and again, turn a blind eye to whatever business they were doing. It was all right for a while, but then one of Mackie’s crew got me into drugs big-style and soon I wasn’t just entertaining the odd villain, I was turning tricks full-time. Earning my keep, they told me. And then they moved other girls into the flat. I recognised one of them – she’d been with us about a year before, one of the girls who’d sold her baby. She’d been this real A-grade student, I remember her telling us she had a place lined up at uni for the following year, she wanted to be an architect. God, by the time she turned up back at the flat, she had a coke habit and two black eyes and I doubt she’d have been able to spell architect.’ Her eyes flick between Renée and Parnell. ‘Me and Maryanne didn’t know this, I swear, but Mackie’s crew were grabbing the most vulnerable ones when they left the flat, the ones feeling a bit down, hormones all over the place, you know? They’d offer them drugs, get them hooked and well, you know where that leads . . .’

  ‘Are you still using now?’ asks Parnell.

  I know what he’s thinking. ‘If you are, you look well on it.’

  ‘No, I got clean six years ago. Hardly even drink now. But I keep doing what I do because the money’s good and in another few years I’ll have saved enough to start again somewhere. Far away from here. New Zealand, maybe.’

  HMP Bronzefield? HMP Downview?

  ‘And you pay what to who?’ asks Renée.

  ‘Forty per cent of my earnings to Gina. More than if I worked for an agency, but I get the run of the flat too. I get to choose who I work with these days.’

  Renée raises an eyebrow. ‘So Gina Hicks isn’t your landlady, she’s your pimp?’

  A nervous dry laugh. ‘I suppose so. I’d like to be a fly on a wall when you put that to her though. Gina likes to think of it as “rent”. She went all up-herself years ago. I think ever since her old man fled the country, she’s tried to live a semi straight-ish life – as much as you can when all your wealth’s come from misery – so she doesn’t like to think of it as taking a prostitute’s earnings.’

  ‘She wouldn’t have liked Maryanne turning up again,’ says Parnell before adding, ‘When did she turn up, Saskia? When did she get back in contact with you?’

  ‘Beginning of the month. I hadn’t heard a thing from her since the da
y she left. I nearly died when I opened the door. So did she, actually – she said she was just chancing it, she didn’t actually think I’d still be here. She looked really different, that shocked me too – still pretty but sort of plain, and she’d lost her accent, pretty much. It’s like she’d completely erased her past. Can’t say I blame her.’

  ‘And what did she want?’ asks Renée.

  ‘She didn’t really say at first, just asked if she could come in. So I said “yeah, why not” and I went to make us a coffee, but then as I was walking back to the living room, I saw her standing in the spare room’ – she pulls a perplexed face – ‘and I thought, “what the hell is she doing?’ Then suddenly she turns round and says, ‘This is where I had him. This is the only place I ever held him.’ And I swear, I know this makes me sound like an idiot, but for a minute, I was like, ‘Who? What are you talking about?’ and she said “Daniel” and then burst into tears. Jesus, she’d even given him a name.’

  ‘Her baby?’ confirms Renée. ‘So she’d regretted giving him away?’

  Saskia nods. ‘Although she certainly didn’t at the time. All she ever used to talk about was the money she’d made, what a great option it’d been. I don’t think I even knew she’d had a boy.’

  ‘Regret’s not always an instant thing,’ says Parnell. ‘Time does the opposite of heal sometimes.’

  ‘Time, and not being able to have kids,’ replies Saskia, matter-of-fact. ‘It all came pouring out over three cups of coffee. She was married now, see, and they’d been having IVF and it hadn’t worked. And she thought her husband was having an affair to cap it all off. She just kept saying that she couldn’t stop thinking about him – Daniel – whether he was happy, what he looked like now, that sort of thing.’ She gives a small shudder. ‘It was weird. I mean, I felt sorry for her and everything but I hadn’t seen her for so long, it felt awkward.’