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

by Caz Frear

  Somebody his aunt Maryanne never got to know.

  31

  ‘There’s no point denying it, Gina. We can get his DNA from a hairbrush, a toothbrush, he doesn’t have to be here. Leo is Maryanne’s child.’ I square my shoulders, ready for the denial but she just looks at me, relaxed and resigned, like she’s almost wondering what took us so long.

  I’m wondering what took us so long. Now I’ve seen it, I can’t un-see it. The same ocean-blue eyes, the same charcoal black hair. He’s a fraction different around the mouth maybe. Thinner lips, a slightly more tapered chin – inherited from whoever his father was, I suppose – but overall, the likeness is unmistakeable. His cheekbones rival Aiden’s.

  A Doyle through and through.

  ‘Leo’s my child.’ Her declaration rings out across the empty visiting room. ‘I raised him. I nurtured him. I’m the one who stayed with him in hospital when he had bronchitis as a baby. I’m the one who sang to him, taught him the days of the week, how to tie his laces. I’m the only mother he’s ever known. That woman, the one who spat him out into the world, she didn’t want him. She chose designer clothes and fancy handbags over him. She doesn’t get to turn up years later laying claim to a child she literally held for two minutes.’ A brittle laugh. ‘She held on to the brown envelope a lot longer, I can tell you.’

  ‘Why did you keep him? Why didn’t you sell him on?’

  She closes her eyes and breathes in deeply, lungs filling up with air while her head fills with precious memories. ‘He was just so beautiful. So perfect. I couldn’t understand how she could give him up but she did’ – she clicks her fingers – ‘just like that. She just shoved him into my arms like he was a pair of shoes in the wrong size and started counting out the money.’

  ‘And your dad let you keep him? That baby was worth a lot of money to him.’

  She shrugs. ‘Maryanne had shown her true colours by then, suggesting he turn the whole thing into a production line. He knew there was more to be made so he said “yes”. I think he felt guilty.’

  ‘Guilty?’ I’m not sure it’s an emotion Patrick Mackie understands but I guess Gina knows him better than me. Even monsters can have hidden depths.

  ‘I’d been working for him for ten years by then. Ten years,’ she says, reinforcing the point. ‘I was still only twenty-eight. I think he knew working for him had stripped me of any life. I just wanted something to love, something that wasn’t business, a hint of a normal life. So I told him straight out that if he loved me, he’d let me take Maryanne’s baby.’

  ‘But you could have had your own baby?’ As soon as I say it, I realise that this might not be true. We know about her fertility issues and was IVF even so prevalent in the 1990s?

  ‘Taking an unwanted child was easier,’ she says simply. ‘My life was hectic enough with all the studying and working for Dad. Being pregnant would have been a nightmare – or that’s how I saw it then. Anyway, because of who I was, men hardly ever came near me. And spotty Med students weren’t really my type either.’

  ‘You didn’t get your normal life though, did you? You carried on with your dad’s business long after Leo.’

  She corrects me quickly. ‘I carried on working at the flat, supervising the girls, delivering the babies. I stopped being involved in . . . everything else.’

  ‘By everything else, you mean the drugs, the prostitution rings, the major frauds?’

  The look of pure malice could be for me, or for herself. Odds on, it’s the latter.

  She shakes her head. ‘I never wanted to be part of all that. Never. And that’s part of the reason why having a child made sense. I knew Dad would let me step away from the more dangerous aspects if I was a mother.’ She leans forward onto the table, exhausted, broken. ‘Deep down, all I’d ever wanted was a proper career, a family, decent friends. And I finally got it when I met Nate. He was respectable.’

  ‘So Nate could have been anyone really? He was just your passport to a normal life.’

  She doesn’t look offended by the suggestion. ‘You could put it like that, I suppose. He had a young child so it was certainly a passport to a readymade nuclear family. Leo. Amber. One boy. One girl. It was perfect. And I think I did love him, in a way. I liked that he’d been brought up well. He knew all the best restaurants, all the best schools, where to ski, what wine to pair with what meal. He was part of the scene that I wanted to be part of so I made myself love him. But it turns out he wanted to be part of my Dad’s scene even more.’

  ‘Not so respectable.’

  ‘He was corruptible.’ Her eyes bore into mine. ‘Most people are, given the right set of circumstances.’

  There’s no way Gina Hicks knows anything about me or Dad – how could she? – and yet her words sound heavy and loaded.

  She carries on, chin propped on one hand. ‘I recognised Nate’s greed the first time I met him, but that was good, I knew it meant he’d accept who my dad was, where I’d come from.’

  I nod. ‘Nate fronts some of your dad’s businesses, we know that.’

  She doesn’t argue. ‘I was OK with that. Listen, I said I wanted more of a normal life, not that I wanted to completely disown my previous one.’ She shrugs again. ‘Whatever Dad and Nate got up to was fine with me, I just didn’t want to hear about it. And then when Dad fled the UK, it got easier anyway. We were happy. Things were good.’

  ‘Until Maryanne came back, asking about her baby.’

  Her voice is hot. ‘Until my Dad came back and got his claws into Leo. Filling his head with all this talk of succession, about taking over the family business. And Leo idolises him, that’s the worst part! Thinks he’s this great big legend and wants to be just like him. He’d do anything to impress him. It kills me to watch.’

  I try a theory out for size. It’s been bubbling and forming since two a.m. this morning.

  ‘Was Leo at the house, Gina? Did he see you push Maryanne? Is that why you wanted him out of the country, to keep him out of all of this?’

  She sits up, says nothing for a while. There isn’t a sound in the room but I wait out the silence, determined she’ll break first.

  She does after a huge sigh.

  ‘Not bad, but not a hundred per cent. He wasn’t there at the time. He didn’t see what happened. He came home shortly afterwards, though, while I was waiting for Dad. He wasn’t supposed to, he was supposed to be at rugby practice but it was raining and he was already getting over a nasty cough. He had the Vienna performance to think of.’

  ‘And he saw Maryanne.’

  ‘She saw him, that was the problem.’ She pauses, rolls her eyes. ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, do you honestly think Leo had any idea who she was? He’s a teenage boy, Detective. He doesn’t register anyone unless they’re half-naked or carrying some sort of sports equipment. But she knew though. She knew straight away.’ Her face sours. ‘Touching, isn’t it?’

  I picture Leo Hicks walking into that house. His hair blackened a shade darker by the rain, the sculpted spikes dampening into curls. And those tell-tale blue eyes staring straight into the eyes of the woman on the floor. The woman who gave birth to him.

  Of course Maryanne knew and it was the reason she had to die.

  If Gina didn’t have the balls to do it, daddy dearest would, and she knew this. She as good as killed Maryanne when she called Patrick Mackie, asking for his help.

  ‘I tried to do everything right by Leo. He was my perfect boy. Private school, extra-curricular everything, educational holidays, piano lessons.’ Even now, she can’t help but puff up with pride. ‘He’s so incredibly gifted, you know? He sat grade eight on his sixteenth birthday.’

  I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say so I say nothing. I feel a quiver of something though. Things quickly falling into place.

  ‘And it was all fine until my dad came back.’ She looks straight at me, defiant. ‘You have no idea how it feels to be scared of your father.’ I blink away something. A laugh? A tear? ‘To feel like he defin
es you and that no matter what you do and how hard you try, you’ll never escape what he is. That maybe you’re as bad as he is, deep down? I didn’t want that for Leo. I had to get him away, out of the country, away from my dad’s poison.’

  I don’t have the heart to tell her I think it’s too late. That Leo is no longer Maryanne’s baby or her perfect boy.

  Leo Hicks is Patrick Mackie’s boy now.

  He was the second he helped his grandad dispose of Maryanne’s body.

  Maybe even helped murder her?

  The shallow slash-marks to her throat – hesitation marks, Vickery suggested. Someone trying to work up the courage. An inexperienced killer, the whole team had agreed. Not the shaky work of one of the UK’s most wanted criminals.

  But can we prove it?

  Will we ever be able to prove that Leo Hicks unwittingly killed his own birth mother?

  *

  From the car park I call Richard Little – the piano teacher whose car was stolen and used to dispose of Maryanne’s body. He confirms he has a pupil called Leo Hicks. He’s been rather worried about him, in fact. He was supposed to be back in lessons from 17th January and he hasn’t heard from anyone, neither Leo or his parents. No one appears to want to take his calls.

  He also unwittingly confirms that Leo knew he’d be in Malta at the time his car was stolen. He explains they’d talked about Malta in their last lesson, a few weeks before Christmas. Leo had been to Valetta with his parents when he was younger and he told him it was a beautiful place. Such a cultured young man, he gushes. So talented.

  I let the gushing praise burn out then thank him for his time, tell him he’s been very helpful

  Which he has, I suppose.

  His confirmation is hardly cast-iron evidence but at least it’s something. Something to build a case from if Leo Hicks is ever caught.

  With a heavy heart and the rumblings of a migraine, I call HQ and ask for Forensics to be sent back over to the Hickses’ to seize all of Leo’s shoes. You never know, we might get lucky with a footprint, although we haven’t been too big on luck lately, and I strongly suspect Leo’s clothes would have been destroyed within minutes anyway.

  Patrick Mackie doesn’t like loose ends, you see.

  32

  ‘I hear you’re considering a secondment.’

  For once Dr Allen isn’t bang on the money. I’m not considering a secondment, I’m going on secondment. On ‘attachment’ anyway, which isn’t pure semantics or fart-arsey Met-speak, it’s actually the main reason I agreed.

  On ‘attachment,’ while I might be learning new stuff in a new building with new people, I essentially stay under the wing of my Operational Command Unit. Or in simpler non-Met speak, I stay tethered to Steele’s apron strings.

  Still very much part of Murder, in spirit if not in body.

  ‘I’ve decided to take it,’ I tell Dr Allen, who looks pleasantly surprised. ‘Well, it is only for five months and it’s “very prestigious”,’ I add, mimicking Steele’s mantra.

  She allows herself a smidge of a smile. ‘So where are you off to?’

  ‘The Mayor’s office, no less. Working on the final draft of the Police and Crime Plan. It’s a four-year plan, quite a big project.’

  Dr Allen sips her black coffee, nods her approval. ‘Very prestigious indeed. And high profile. It sounds like a fantastic opportunity, Cat. The content of the work must be hugely appealing?’

  It is. Sort of. What’s more appealing is not having to look Parnell and Steele in the eye for the next five months, although I’m not entirely sure five whole lifetimes will lessen the guilt I feel every time Parnell praises me for playing a blinder with Gina Hicks in the interview room. For going after her confession like my world depended on it.

  I’m not entirely sure Parnell’s not suspicious about that either, but that could just be my paranoia.

  The kind of paranoia five months’ distance might go some way to dissolve.

  ‘Sod the content of the work,’ I say. ‘The job’s based in Southwark which means I can walk to work in half an hour, no public transport. Who in their right mind would turn that down?’

  ‘It’s a bonus, yes, I can see that. But I don’t believe for a second it’s your main reason. It must have been a very hard decision.’

  It was. I miss Parnell already and I haven’t even left yet.

  ‘It’s nine-to-five, that’s an ever bigger bonus.’ That’s met with a stern stare but I’m only half-joking this time. ‘Seriously, nine-to-five is good. I’ve got some stuff going on in my personal life, family stuff. I could do with my work life being a bit more routine.’ I laugh out loud, stick my fist in my mouth. ‘Jesus, did I just say “routine”? Not exactly the maverick rookie cliché I thought I was.’

  ‘Really, is that how you see yourself? Mmm, I’d challenge you to think about that, Cat.’ I lean forward, challenge accepted. Dr Allen reads my body language perfectly. ‘Well, it’s just that only a few weeks ago, you talked about your obsession with fairness, your need for reassurance that certain rules work. Those aren’t generally the concerns of a dyed-in-the-wool maverick. You may be more conformist than you think.’

  I nod because she’s right. It’s true there’s part of me that has this deep desire to conform. To be like the Emily Becks of this world, breezing through life with a kind of universally alluring blandness that makes everyone look at you, but not too closely.

  Neither ignored nor adored.

  ‘So what happens now?’ I ask. ‘Do you tick the “not batshit crazy” box and send me on my way?’

  ‘Do you think I should?’

  ‘I’m definitely sleeping better.’

  Of course, it’s easier to sleep better when you’re being spooned by a sexy Irishman several nights a week, but I gloss over that fact. God knows where ‘shagging a member of the victim’s family’ comes on Dr Allen’s over-empathy scale.

  ‘That’s encouraging,’ she says, manufacturing an encouraging smile. ‘A good night’s sleep should be a priority, not a luxury. But it’s not the only benchmark of progress.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning you’ve moved forward in other ways.’

  But backwards in the ways that count. Integrity. Honesty. Trust.

  I swallow down the self-loathing and try to sound pleased. ‘Really, do you think so?’

  ‘You certainly seem more present than in our earlier meetings. I never really had the sense you were ‘here’ until recently. You were physically here, of course . . .’

  ‘But mentally, about fifty miles south of Botswana?’

  I expect a smile but it doesn’t come. ‘You’re far too hard on yourself, Cat. You were distracted, that’s all I meant. Distant.’

  ‘Distant and over-empathetic? Is that even possible?’

  ‘Very much so. Most people’s personalities are a mess of contradictions. It’s rarely a case of being A or B.’

  Don’t I just know it.

  ‘So what’s the “benchmark of progress” on the empathy front, Dr Allen? Do I have to prove I’ve become a cold-hearted bitch before you’ll sign me off?’

  Snarky comments aren’t a ‘benchmark of progress’ either but she allows it. One for the road, hey?

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with empathy per se, Cat, but it’s all about levels. And too much empathy in the job you do can be debilitating. It’s very difficult to make rational decisions when you are literally feeling somebody else’s pain. Now, compassion . . .’ She tilts her head the other way. ‘Compassion is another thing entirely. It’s possible to feel compassion for someone without it overwhelming your circuits.’ She glances at the clock, two minutes and counting. ‘But I’d say you’ve made progress there too. DCI Steele tells me you played a key role in your latest case, and I believe that wasn’t an easy one either?’

  The praise makes me nauseous, I shrug it away quickly. ‘It was straightforward enough. We got guilty pleas so we’re just waiting on sentencing, and the medical reports
for the old guy. He should get sent down though. Fuck him and his illness. Very few people deserve lung cancer, Dr Allen, but he’s definitely one of them . . .’

  Dr Allen gives me her Mona Lisa smile. The elusive one. The one that’s annoyingly impartial. I think about practising it in the mirror tonight, I reckon it must come in handy.

  ‘Well, that’s about it,’ she says eventually, not quite standing up but bracing herself to. ‘We’ll have follow-up sessions every six weeks and of course you know where I am in the meantime.’ A slight pause. ‘But is there anything else you wanted to say, or ask, today?’

  I think about this. ‘I suppose there is one thing.’ She picks up the humour in my voice, responds with a pre-emptive smile. ‘If it’s rarely a case that you’re either A or B, does that mean I can be a spontaneous sexy maverick and a slave to routine?’

  She laughs. ‘Absolutely. Although, don’t judge routine too harshly, Cat. It gets a bad press in today’s adrenaline-fuelled society, but it provides a level of safety, a level of reassurance. It’s OK to crave routine. Most people do, if they’re honest.’

  ‘I don’t crave it,’ I say, a little snarky again. Two for the road. ‘I just need some personal time and Murder doesn’t leave room for much else.’

  The routine for the foreseeable future, as stipulated by Jacqui, self-appointed chief mediator, is for me to have dinner at her house, ‘Six p.m. sharp, not a minute later’ a couple of times a week.

  With Dad there.

  Although no Noel, thank God. Noel’s back in Fuengirola, pulling pints in low-rent strip-clubs again and paying off whatever gambling or drug debt Dad bailed him out of.

  We’ve only had two summits so far but Jacqui’s been in her element, presiding over anodyne conversations about loft extensions and Finn’s prowess on the football field, while feeding us home-cooked stews and hearty roast dinners. The kind of food that’s supposed to say ‘family’, I think.

  Restorative food.

  Healing straight out of a packet.

  Truth is, the healing tends to start when Jacqui’s not there, when she’s clearing up in the kitchen or holding sleep-time negotiations with Finn. That’s when Dad and I sit in silence – a strained but strangely peaceful silence – watching the TV, laughing or tutting at the same things.