by Caz Frear
“Not really, and there was a porch light shining on both of them anyway. I saw him as clear as I’m seeing you both now. He was wearing that red lumberjack shirt, the one in all the papers. I know what you’re hinting at but I know what I saw.”
“We’re not doubting you, Serena. Not at all.” Parnell’s straight in with calming words, his tone slightly stilted, politician sincere. “We’re just doing our job. Fresh pair of eyes. You understand?”
“Of course, but whatever your ‘discrepancies’ are, rest assured I am cast-iron.” Eyes like headlights, full beam and unequivocal. “I wish I wasn’t. I really wish I wasn’t. I wish I’d never been there that day. But that doesn’t change the fact that I had no doubts then and I’ve no doubts now.”
As emphatic closes go, I don’t think I’ve heard better. I shut my notebook and give a small smile. “Thanks, Serena. You’ve been really helpful. You can get back to your Sports Day now.”
“My pleasure.” She stands and we follow, Parnell with minor difficulty. “And apologies if I seemed a bit edgy to begin with. Sports Day is fraught enough, making sure everyone goes home with their limbs intact, and then you turn up . . .”
Asking about a girl whose limbs are currently stacked in Tupperware boxes.
She walks us to the door, although “marches” might be a better word. “Sorry to rush you, but my daughter’s in the Year One egg-and-spoon race. There’ll be murder if I’m not there to watch.”
I ignore the bad choice of phrase, thinking instead of poor Finn missing his Sports Day. Next year, I’m taking the day off, I decide. I’m going to be stationed at the finish line, whooping like a mad thing, showering him with high-fives and “attaboys” even if he comes last.
I’m going to be the best aunt in the world.
Because I can live with the Bad Sister tag. I’ve been living my whole life with the Bad Daughter tag. But the Bad Aunt tag—when it’s occasionally flung—stings like a bitch.
Although not as much as the Corrupt Officer tag.
The most poisonous tag of all, known only to me.
7
“She’s adamant,” says Parnell between bites of a Big Mac.
“Word-perfect, I’d call it.”
“You’re doing your suspicious face, Kinsella. I’m not even looking at you and I know you’re doing your suspicious face.”
Steele’s in her office, head bowed over something numerical and soul-destroying. But she’s listening. She’s always listening.
“I don’t know if I’m suspicious or impressed,” I reply to the top of her satiny black crown. “I mean, I couldn’t tell you what knickers I was wearing on Monday, but Serena Bailey’s still got it bad for a coat she saw six years ago.”
“You should get some of those Days of the Week knickers then.” Pen down, eyes up, Steele rolls the tension out of her shoulders. “We’ve got Spencer Shaw’s address now, by the way. He lives near me actually, out west. Flowers went over—no answer. A neighbor thinks they might be on holiday, but they’re not a nosy neighbor, sadly. Couldn’t really tell him anything more than that.”
“If he lives near you, Heathrow’s worth a shot?” says Parnell. “If his passport’s gone through, we should be able to track him.”
“Ben’s on it. Heathrow, Gatwick, Luton, Stansted, City Airport. ’Course they could be holidaying in the UK.”
“Who’s ‘they?’” I ask.
“Shaw, his wife, and a couple of little ones, apparently.” She drums her nails on the desk. “Now, what else did I need to tell you? Oh yeah, Cookey’s working through the foster parents. He’s met the last ones she was placed with. Nothing much doing. She was only with them eight months and it was 2006, a long time ago. They could barely remember the dates, never mind if anyone had a grudge against her. And they didn’t hear from her again once she left.”
“Where did she go?” I ask vaguely. What I’m actually wondering is what possible grudge a then-teenage girl could provoke to get herself shot in the head years later.
“A kind of hostel, halfway house thing,” Steele explains. “For kids who are technically old enough to be independent but young enough to need a sharp eye on them.”
“What about the aunt?” asks Parnell. “The one who refused to take her in when her parents died?”
“Remarried, living in Málaga. Renée had a call with her. She was no help either. Claims she never really knew Holly—she and her sister weren’t close so Holly was pretty much a stranger. And she didn’t fancy cramming a stranger into one of her own kids’ bedrooms.”
“A ten-year-old orphaned stranger with no other family,” I say. “Warms the cockles, eh?”
“Quite.” More nail drumming. “So what else . . . oh, Seth and Emily didn’t get much in Newcastle, except lost on the one-way system.” I imagine the polite bickering: Seth out of his comfort zone being so far from London Town, Emily blaming the layout, the ineptitude of the town planners, rather than her own inability to read a road sign. “The ex-wife could only think of one vague link to Cambridgeshire—a second cousin in Wisbech, which is still forty miles from Caxton and, in any case, he died in 2015. And on the subject of guns—‘No idea, but I wouldn’t have put it past him.’”
“I thought we were keeping guns out of it?” Parnell deepens his voice to match Blake’s baritone. “For investigative purposes.”
“Good impression,” I tell him. “Although that ruins it. Can you imagine Blake eating a Big Mac?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him eat,” says Steele. “I don’t think he’s human. I think he was created in a lab in the bowels of Scotland Yard.” She smiles, letting her head drop back. “Look, we aren’t going to spoon-feed the media, I agree with him on that. But I’m not holding it back from people who could help us.”
I look at Parnell. “Maybe we shouldn’t have been so Secret Squirrel with Bailey. The word ‘gun’ might have shifted something.”
Steele sighs. “So, anything else to share, re Bailey, apart from her fashion taste?”
Parnell pulls a chair out—a chair befitting a thirteen-stone man, not a child with a mouth full of milk teeth. “She stands by everything,” he explains. “What she saw, when she saw it. We got some details that weren’t in her original statement, why she was in Clapham that day, background stuff, context. It’s new but it doesn’t tell us anything.”
“Be nice if Masters had been standing at the door with a 9mm automatic and it’d just slipped her mind, wouldn’t it?”
“Be nice to get Dyer’s take on Bailey,” I say.
“Her take? That sounds suspiciously like suspicion, Kinsella.”
What the hell. She’ll drag it out of me sooner or later. “Look, maybe it’s me. I just find it odd that we spring all this on her at a second’s notice, we tell her there’s discrepancies, that we need to check our facts again, and she doesn’t question herself at all. Not one little bit.”
Parnell shrugs. “She saw what she saw. Nothing to question.”
“Yeah, absolutely, and that’s very probably the case. But I still think it’d be human nature to doubt yourself slightly, especially after all this time. Most people would have a moment’s uncertainty, that’s all I’m saying.”
Steele checks her watch. “Well, look, I can tell you exactly where you’ll find Dyer if you want to get her ‘take.’ I’m supposed to be meeting her in the H&F in half an hour.” The Harp & Fiddle, just over Waterloo Bridge, is the most un-Dyer place I can possibly imagine. The most un-Steele place too, for that matter. The wine list consists of crap white or crap red, and you’d be wise to get a tetanus shot if you’re desperate enough to use the loo. “Bloody Olly Cairns. Always did have dreadful taste in pubs. And wives. And music. Do me a favor and pop down and make my excuses. You can grill Dyer, Cat, and I can get my head around this new grading matrix.”
Our annual appraisal system. A batch of numbers that tell us if we’re on Steele’s Naughty or Nice list. As if she’s shy of letting us know on a daily basis
.
“Won’t we be gate-crashing?” asks Parnell.
“No more than I would. Olly and Tess were always a lot tighter than me and Olly. And anyway, it’s not just a social thing, it’s a courtesy meet. Blake wants us ‘pooling knowledge.’ He thinks we’d be ‘remiss’ not to use her fine brain.” Her tone is dry as dust. “She speaks fluent French. He gets a hard-on for that sort of thing.”
“So do I.” I turn to Parnell. “Voulez-vous allez à la—what’s French for pub?”
“Le pub.”
“I almost married a Frenchman in my early twenties.” Steele’s prone to these kind of statements. You’re never quite sure if they’re the truth or a windup. “No, seriously,” she says, laughing at our faces. “Church booked, dress picked, all sorted. I would have been DCI Dupont, which I’m sure you agree has a certain ring to it.”
Parnell looks skeptical. “And what happened?”
“It’s a grubby little story, really. He saw my chief bridesmaid. I saw him for what he was. Anyway, my point is I speak good, if not fluent, French too, so I’m going to ask you both now to foutre le camp.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, knowing for sure it won’t mean anything pleasant.
She smiles. “Known on these shores as ‘bugger off out of here.’ But give Olly my best, OK?”
From good French to bad pubs.
It’s years since I’ve been in the Harp & Fiddle, and in these turbulent times it’s comforting to see that some things never change. Because you don’t come to the H&F for the ambiance, or the Instagram likes, or the fifty different flavors of organically made gin. You come for a drink, plain and simple. You come to experience a pub run with such apathy that an artificial Christmas tree sags in the corner all year round, the angel sitting on top, completely crooked. Like she dropped in for a pint and stayed for a session.
And yet, on a glorious Wednesday evening, in a city rich with parks and pools and a million other alternatives, the H&F’s rickety bar stools are full. A shoal of old men watching the racing at Sandown, and losing by the sounds of it. Tourists looking bewildered. The usual sad sacks using “a swift half” as a delaying tactic to avoid going home.
And polished, pinstriped DCI Tess Dyer.
“Sorry, not my choice,” she says by way of greeting. She’s sitting on a banquette in the far corner of the bar, the table in front carved with graffiti, including something not altogether courteous about the Metropolitan Police. “Bloody Olly! He and the landlord go way back. Best pint of Guinness inside the M25, apparently.”
As requested, we make Steele’s excuses. Dyer tuts, grins, declares it Steele’s loss, then moves along the banquette, ripping a £20 from her purse. “Do the honors, would you, Lu? Mine’s a Gin ’n’ Slim and whatever you’re both having.” Parnell saunters off, knowing precisely what I’ll have. “Interesting turn of events,” she says, her eyes on mine as I sit down. “I’m still processing it, to be honest.”
“I reckon we all are, ma’am.” This is awkward. I can’t think what else to say. It was good to get the landscape from Steele, of course—Dyer’s husband, his illness, the diabolical pressure she was under and what that could have meant—but it doesn’t make for a cozy tête-à-tête in the nook of the Harp & Fiddle. I look over to Parnell, willing him back to the table, but he’s joshing with the barman, and if it’s about football, he could be some time. “So, um, how was your day?”
How was your day? She’s a superintendent-in-waiting, not your best mate or your boyfriend.
“I’ve had better,” she says, not seeming to mind the question. Maybe she’s grateful to be asked? It can get lonely at the top, or even at middle management. “I had to call the parents, warn them it was going to be back in the news. Well, I called Steffi and Ling’s parents, and Sean and Linda . . .”
“Bryony Trent’s folks?”
“No, Sean and Linda Denby—Holly’s foster parents. She was with them the longest. Nearly two years, which is good going for a teenage placement. They aren’t the easiest.”
“Oh, right. I think one of our guys is working through those . . .”
“I had to make contact, Cat. It was the right thing to do—they knew me, not one of your guys.”
Fair enough. “So why did Holly leave the Denbys? They weren’t her last set of foster parents.”
“I can’t remember the details, but she’d been acting out, being disruptive, and they had other children to think of. It’s common enough. They stayed in contact with her, though. Hadn’t actually seen her for a few years before she disappeared, but they’d exchange birthday cards, the odd call now and again. They were the only ones who did.”
“And Bryony’s folks?”
“Both passed away now. I had no idea. Not that I should have known,” she adds quickly, an unnecessary defense. “But you never stop feeling responsible, Cat. You never should, anyway.”
Responsible? Responsible implies some degree of control, an ability to turn the tide, to make things better. No chance here. All the victims are dead and three quarters of them are buried. What she means is “you never stop feeling guilty,” even if she can’t bring herself to admit it.
And maybe she should? About Holly, at least. In trying to prove she was superwoman, did she let Holly Kemp become more of a footnote than a true victim?
Did she let another killer walk free?
But Serena Bailey. Serena Bailey. Serena Bailey. The pulled thread that unravels everything. The earworm that won’t go away.
“We met Serena Bailey today.” I’m all breezy, knowing I need to tread carefully. Steele might have said “grill Dyer” but there’s picking her brain and there’s picking her witness to shreds. “I’ve got to hand it to her, she’s got one hell of a memory. She gave more detail today than she did back then.”
“She’s had six years to mull it over. I bet a day rarely goes by when she doesn’t replay what she saw.”
“Quite the opposite, apparently. She claimed she was a whiz at blocking things out, before giving us the whole thing in high definition.”
And in any case, memory doesn’t work like that, I want to say. Details fade the second you turn your back. Inaccuracies grow. Your hard drive gets corrupted. It’s why Jacqui frames our childhood as something straight off an episode of The Waltons, while I seem to conjure up the bloodiest scenes from The Godfather. The truth is usually a gray blotch lying somewhere in between.
Parnell’s back with the drinks. “Say what you like about this dive, but for Zone 1, the prices are stupid-low.” He hands Dyer back her change. “What’d I miss?”
“Serena Bailey.”
“Who else?”
I take a sip of 7 Up—no G&Ts for us; our day is far from over. “Do you know what else I found a bit odd?”
Parnell summarizes for Dyer. “Apart from the fact she doesn’t doubt herself at all?”
“That she hadn’t heard about Holly. The news was released at midday and it was gone three p.m. when we got there.”
Parnell shrugs. “She did say it’d been hectic. It’s not like teachers sit around scrolling through Twitter while the kids are doing their spelling tests.”
“No, but it was a major event in her life,” I insist. “You’d think someone she knew would have seen it and called, or at least texted, to say, Oh my God, that girl who went missing, the one you were the last to see alive, she’s been found.”
Dyer weighs it up, pushing a beer mat around the table. “If it was the evening news, I’d say sure, it’s a bit odd. But who watches the lunchtime news?”
I shrug “OK” but it still grates. We live in an information age, facts, lies, “fake news” spread across multiple platforms within minutes. Surely someone from her SPECIAL PEOPLE TREE—basically, anyone except Peanut, who I’m assuming has four legs—would have come across the story somehow.
“What did you make of her?” Parnell asks Dyer.
“Bailey? Well, look, I was the SIO, so I didn’t get too involved with witnesses.”
Same as Steele, more of a general than a foot soldier. “Although obviously I would have done if we’d been able to charge the bastard with Holly and she’d needed prepping for court. From what I remember from my team, though, she was near on the perfect eyewitness, and God knows, they’re in short supply. No record, not even a parking ticket. Intelligent. Respectable. Solid.”
File under “nice.” Juries love nice.
“Seriously, is there ever a perfect eyewitness?” Like a dog hovering over a plate of meat, I glance over to Parnell to check I’m not about to get my snout slapped. He dips his head: permission granted. “I mean, did you see that case in America? Not one, five eyewitnesses gave a description of a thin black guy between the ages of thirty and forty, firing at an amusement arcade. Turns out the shooter was a twenty-year-old white male. Not particularly thin, either. Eyewitness accounts given under stress are dodgy. No wonder the CPS wouldn’t prosecute.”
I’ve probably gone too far but Dyer’s fine. She looks almost impressed. “The key word there is ‘stress,’ Cat. Serena Bailey wasn’t the witness to a crime, just the witness to two people talking. There was no trauma to devalue what she said.”
“I’m not trying to devalue it, I’m just trying to digest it. I’m trying to get into a headspace where Bailey’s ID is two hundred percent nailed on.”
“Did anyone else put Holly on Valentine Street?” asks Parnell.
“We canvassed every house,” says Dyer, shaking her head. “But then, nobody put any of the girls on the street. That four to five p.m. period is the dead zone in middle-class suburbia. The school run’s done so all the parents are inside, wrestling with homework. The office workers aren’t home yet, and the old biddies are watching quiz shows. Masters got lucky in that sense. Maybe he planned it that way.” She stops, although there’s a sense she hasn’t finished speaking. Quickly, she turns her head, eyes lasering the door for a few seconds. “You’re asking me what I think of Serena Bailey. You’d be better off asking me what I think, full stop.”