by Caz Frear
“What?” Steele’s face creases. “You didn’t raise it with John Turvill? He was Commander at the time, right?”
“No, I didn’t.”
Short. Sharp. Final. A reminder of who was once boss, who showed her the ropes, who taught her to tie her investigative shoelaces.
“Ah, come on. No? That’s it? Olly, this is me you’re talking to. What are you not saying?”
“You need to understand the context, Kate.” Katie, love has now left the building. “That case was two weeks of pure bedlam. Three separate incident rooms to cope with the chaos. A few thousand calls every day and three quarters of them stone mad. I don’t know how many door-to-door inquiries were made, but we’re talking thousands again, and God alone knows how many hours of CCTV, for all the good it did. Every day a new development, a dud lead, and constant pressure to make quick decisions. And all of this under fierce media scrutiny—fierce.” He pauses, letting us feel the lead weight of it. “The real powers that be—Turvill, DAC Dempsey—wanted the case closed, is what I’m saying. They wanted the good people of Clapham sleeping easier in their beds.”
“So closed was more important than thorough?” I ask.
At worst I sound disrespectful, at best naive. But as much as I’ve taken a small shine to Oliver Cairns, all wife-less and cardiganed in his unmanageably large home, he’s not my old mentor. He ain’t the boss of me.
“Oh no, thorough is important, Cat. Thing is, they want thorough, but they want it now. Same as any business. And o’course, anything this high profile, it’s not just the family you’re answerable to; it’s the country, the politicians. Police cuts were big news back then. Rallies, marches, protests. Do you remember, Kate? Cut Crime, Not Police. The Thin Blue Line Just Got Thinner. And it’s no better now. If it wasn’t for bloody Brexit, it’d still be front-page news.”
“Enough,” Steele says, hands up. “Do you know, Olly, I’ve banned the B word in the office unless it’s relevant to a case. Two years of everyone and his dog having an opinion; it’s too much. The job’s hard enough.”
“Ah, you might be right,” he says, although I get the sense that he’d gladly keep going. “Anyway, the point I was making is with all the noise around cuts, there was no way they wanted the Roommate case dragging on, giving the media more sticks to beat them with.”
Steele shifts closer to Cairns, leaning over the arm of the sofa. “But cuts have always been big news. And I get it was pressurized, but you and me had our fair share of high-stakes cases. Denny Gray, the Vauxhall Bridge shootings. Christ, I didn’t go home for six days when we were on the Carly Waters kidnapping . . .”
A twitch of a smile. “All right then, spit it out, Katie, love. It’s been a few years, but I know that face. What’s eating you?”
“It’s just . . .” She stretches forward, giving him a fond prod on the leg. “The best thing about you, Olly—the best thing for my career, my confidence, was that you always, always trusted me. You were a guiding hand, a devil’s advocate if I needed one, but you let me take the lead, follow my nose. Yet with Tess, with this case, you put a leash on her. Why?”
“Management isn’t one-size-fits-all, you know that. Tess was a different copper to you. You were always by the book, very fact based, and that’s easier to trust. I could give you more rope. Tess is all guts and glory, and while that can be great, it needs micromanaging.” Steele throws me a pointed look—he could be describing me. “You know, I often thought if I could merge the pair of you, I’d have had the perfect detective.”
She takes the compliment, smiling gently. “It must have been tough, though, overruling her. You were so close.”
“And as my bitch of a hangover proves, we still are. Tess didn’t take it personally. I think she was glad to have someone else make the decision.”
Steele’s surprised. “That doesn’t sound like the Tess Dyer I know.”
“You heard about Paul, I assume?”
“Her husband,” I say, keen to keep a hand in the conversation, not let it fall into The Katie and Olly Show. “He was ill at the time.”
“Very ill, which means she wasn’t exactly the Tess Dyer anyone knew.” He looks at the floor, forcing a quivery smile. “Paul was a great fella. Public-school lad, brains to burn, but always wore it lightly, if you know what I mean? He’d been born with a heart defect, but he never let it hold him back. Top university, top marks, top career with the Civil Service.” The smile fades fast. “But he got a bad infection around ten years ago that made whatever the problem was ten times worse. He was in and out of the hospital for years, God love him. He’d get better, they’d get back to normal, and then bam, another setback. And all the while, Tess was climbing the ranks, haring up and down the motorway back and forth to the hospital while raising two kids—two fine lads, Ewan and Max. Ewan’s the sportsman—he plays for Chelsea’s Under 14s. Max is going to be the next Bill Gates, so they say. They’re a credit to her. To them both.”
“So her head wasn’t in the game,” says Steele airily. No hint to the fact she effectively nailed this in yesterday’s briefing.
“Ah now, I wouldn’t say that exactly; this is Tess Dyer we’re talking about. But you can see why I went for the leash over the guiding hand. Tess downplayed Paul’s illness, but I knew the score. I knew she was struggling, and good management’s all about spotting when someone’s vulnerable and having their back. I had yours once or twice in the early days, Katie Steele.”
A beat of silence as something coded flies between them. Steele reddens, but she doesn’t back down. “See, to me, Olly, ‘having someone’s back’ means giving them the courage to express themselves, safe in the knowledge you’ll listen, take it on board. Shooting down her accomplice theory straightaway wouldn’t have done much for her confidence.”
“Nor would Commander Turvill laughing her out of his office.”
“Would he have?” I ask.
“Look, when we got Masters, we had our man, job done. It wouldn’t have done Tess any favors to go off spouting half-cocked theories. She was newly promoted. It was only her second case at the wheel. There’d already been talk of whether she was ready for it, and I wasn’t going to give Turvill—or anyone—the chance to doubt her. That’s what ‘having someone’s back’ means to me. Keeping a clear head when they can’t. Stopping them racing off down rabbit holes. Protecting them from themselves.”
I nod, unsure whether I think this is first-class management or paternalistic horseshit. I’d probably go with the latter if it wasn’t for the fact that Parnell’s steadying hand has kept me sane time and time again, and kept me employed on more than one occasion.
“Why did you think the theory was half-cocked?” asks Steele.
“Well, it seemed half-cocked back then, is what I meant. Pure hypothesis when we only had the time and manpower for hard facts. Tess got it in her head that Masters must have had someone else answering the calls, because no self-respecting young girl would still be interested in the room after two minutes talking to that old drone. I mean, there was something in what she was saying, but John Turvill would have kicked me into next week if we’d landed at his door with just that.”
“What about the lack of drag marks on the victims’ bodies?” I say. “Surely that was worth pause for thought?”
“Pause!” He tips his head back, letting out a laugh like a bark, a single scornful note. “I don’t think any of us paused once, from the time the first call came in until Masters got sent down. And anyway, have you looked at the Dulwich Woods photos?” I haven’t; Holly’s my victim, Caxton, my crime scene. Luckily, Steele’s head is bobbing up and down. “Well then, you’ll know that Stephanie König was the heaviest of the girls, by some way. And where was she found?”
“Much nearer to the road than the others,” says Steele, taking his point.
“Exactly. Masters couldn’t carry her the same distance so he had to bury her nearer to where he’d parked. Two people wouldn’t have had that problem, they’d ha
ve buried her near Bryony and Ling. That was my thinking.”
All of a sudden, I’m not sure what’s more flimsy. Dyer’s reasoning for believing there could be an accomplice or Cairns’ reasoning for discounting it.
“Listen, Olly, I want your opinion.” Steele looks at Cairns like he holds the keys to the universe. “And I need you to be honest with me.”
“Nothing but, Katie. I always was.”
“You said before, ‘It seemed half-cocked back then.’ Does that mean you’ve changed your mind? I guess what I’m asking is, are we going on a wild-goose chase?”
Barely a breath. “Maybe not. Maybe Tess had something, after all.”
She wanted an answer and she got one, and a more resolute one than I think either of us expected. Something’s vexing her though. She turns to face me, eyebrows raised, then back to Cairns. “‘Maybe not.’ Seriously, Olly? The man who’d argue black was white admits he might have called it wrong, just like that.”
“It’s not about being wrong. I stand by my decision. I still say Tess’s theory was too weak for us to have run with, based on the facts we had at the time.” He bends forward, his face inches from Steele’s—his shock of white hair, her raven-black bob. “But you, Katie, you have different facts. You have Holly Kemp rotting in a ditch one hundred miles from the other victims and a bullet hole in her skull, no signs of strangulation. I’d say there’s a fair to middling chance you could be looking at an accomplice.”
“Or a different killer entirely? What’d you think to that?” I try to keep it light, playful. My tongue firmly in my cheek.
“What do I think? I think if I was your guv’nor, I’d be putting the leash on you right now. Check Serena Bailey’s statement, Cat—we got the right man.”
Steele tops up her makeup in the rearview mirror, our post-match analysis more or less complete.
“Christ, though, he’s aged,” she says, head tilted back, mid-mascara.
“He might be thinking the same about you.”
It’s a joke. She knows it’s a joke. While I can’t quite wrap my head around the idea of Steele as a gauche young woman, the idea of her getting old doesn’t seem at all possible.
“I aged in that meeting, I tell you. Don’t ever turn up at my door questioning my management skills, Kinsella. There’s a piece of advice for you.” She drops her makeup bag in my lap. “Here, you’ve got a date, haven’t you?”
I wasn’t going to bother, bar a slick of tinted lip balm, but it’d be sacrilege to pass up a rummage through Steele’s treasure trove: sleek designer brands, everything with its lid on, nothing blunt, smashed, or smeared, or well over five years old.
“So what did Cairns have your back about?” I ask, surveying something called a Parsley Seed Antioxidant Serum. I fully expect to be told to mind my own business.
“Nothing major, don’t get too excited.” She blots her lips, keeping them closed a fraction longer than necessary. “I made a mistake with a warrant. It could have been bad. It wasn’t. That should have been the end of it, but it was 1992 and I was a woman on a murder team, same age as you are now, and Cairns knew they—‘the lads’—would make a thing of it, make it the Biggest Mistake Ever, so he took the heat, said I was just following his orders. He’s got his flaws, Olly, but he’s a good ’un.”
I bring my hands to my face. “Oh my gaaaaaawd! Kate Steele made a mistake! How can we ever trust her again?”
“That was about the size of it,” she says, grinning. “You know, I don’t envy your generation much—I wouldn’t want to be in my twenties the way the world is now, or my thirties for that matter—but it’s definitely easier to be a woman in the Met these days. Not easy, but easier. Sexism isn’t as passé as they like to claim, but it isn’t half as bad as it was, trust me. I mean, I know Flowers can be a bit of a relic, but he knows he’s a relic, at least. And he’d have your back if you needed it. The whole team would. We’ve got a really nice setup.”
Now’s as good a time as any. I’ve made so many mistakes, told so many lies that would pulverize our “nice setup” if they ever came to light, that this almost seems like the least of them.
“You know the guy I’m seeing?” I pull down the sun visor, check myself out in the mirror: a nice couldn’t-care-less gesture.
“Well, no, I don’t. I don’t actually know you’re seeing anyone because you never talk about it, bar references to picnics and dinner dates, but, as you were . . .”
“Well, he’s . . .” I challenge my own reflection. Say it. Say it. “He’s . . .”
She reaches over, pushes the visor up with a snap. “He’s what, Kinsella? A Mormon, a zookeeper, the King of Tonga . . . ?”
“He’s the brother of one of our old victims.” I pause. “Maryanne Doyle, remember her?”
“Of course.” Her eyes are wide, but not hostile. “The Irish girl. Leamington Square. Strangled.”
“Yeah. Well, him. Aiden.”
And so, once more unto the breach, I tell our tall tale. The chance meeting a few months ago, the rain, the pub, the drinks, the easy chemistry. Steele listens, expressionless. She even attempts something tricksy with an eyeliner as I reach the crescendo, which I take as a good sign that she’s really not that bothered.
“So what do you think?” I say finally, waiting for the verdict.
She’s looking straight ahead, seemingly hypnotized by the sweeping cherry blossoms. In Japanese culture, they symbolize the fleeting nature of life. If she’s contemplating this, she might be inclined to go easy.
“I think you’re batting above your average, Kinsella. Good work. I remember him from court. Tall bloke, broad. Bit of a heartthrob, right?”
“Right.” I allow myself a cautious smile, feeling wrongfooted but relieved. “So you’re OK with it? You don’t think it’s a mistake?”
She turns suddenly. “Oh, I think it’s almost certainly a mistake, Cat. I think you’d do well to have a life completely outside of the job, and dating the brother of one of your victims . . . well, there’s something highly Freudian in that, if you ask me. But if you mean have you done anything wrong, professionally? Then no, absolutely not.”
And with this steadfast vote of confidence, I become Steele’s Biggest Mistake Ever.
13
I’m only fifteen minutes late, which by London standards is more like five, and knowing Aiden will be expecting far worse, I take a moment outside L’ingordo to call Nurse Jacqui and check on Dad. I could call Dad, of course, but there’s a very real danger that he would actually answer, and it’s not connection I’m after. It’s voicemail. I want to do my duty, register my interest, cross it off the list, that’s all. And since the dawn of time, or the dawn of expensive self-improvement courses at least, Jacqui has always spent Thursday evenings bettering herself somewhere, her phone switched to silent for maximum concentration.
The latest: The Art of Decluttering and Minimalism.
Sometimes I wonder if we’re related at all.
As I zone out her message, I spot Aiden through the window, smiling and laughing and gesticulating with a breadstick.
My turn to speak.
“Oh hey, it’s me. Just seeing how the patient’s doing. I’m guessing he’s still alive or you’d have called. Um . . . that was it really. Say hi to Finn and Ash. I’ll try you again at some point. Love you. Bye, bye, bye.”
Job done. Interest registered. I may not be a good daughter, or sister, but I’m an adequate one. Just about scraping a grade C.
The restaurant isn’t what I expected. With Aiden in a flap about this visit for weeks—an Aiden flap, anyhow, which means he’s been fractionally less Zen—I’d assumed a hammering of the company credit card. Low lighting and high prices. Sommeliers and smug waiters making endless interruptions to pour the wine and glorify the food. However, bustling L’ingordo is the blessed opposite. Rowdy and harshly lit, and in the corner, a large group are singing “Happy Birthday” to an old man while the waiters mark the occasion by wrapping a raw pizza b
ase around his head.
I relax instantly, making my way over to Aiden’s crew—three men and one woman.
“Ah, here she is, Miss Marple.” Aiden’s smile is goofy, his eyes a little drowsy. Predinner drinks clearly started at lunch.
I roll my eyes at the others. “Charming, isn’t it? That’s how he sees me—an elderly spinster in a tweed suit.”
“Yeah, Aiden.” The woman, tattooed and lightly tanned, with coarse curly hair tied up in a paisley scarf, leans across and swipes his head with a huge napkin. “You could have said Christine Cagney. Or—or . . . Veronica Mars.” To me, “Did you guys get that show over here?”
“Yeah, but she was a PI.” I sit down between Aiden and an older guy in a polo shirt, who I’m guessing is Jack Denton, the CEO. Jack’s an Oz-like figure, according to Aiden. A giant floating brain usually sequestered behind a bank of screens and Starbucks litter. “Veronica Mars hid in bushes rather than smashing down doors. Not that I’ve smashed down many doors—or any, come to think of it. Anyway, hi, I’m Cat. You probably gathered.” I’m conscious I’m babbling.
“I ordered for you, babe.” Aiden only calls me babe when he’s tipsy. “Bruschetta and penne something. But there’s a half an hour wait, they reckon, so load up on these.” He drums two breadsticks on my forehead.
“Carbs followed by carbs, followed by carbs. Excellent choice, sir.”
“It’s penne alla vodka,” says the woman. “My suggestion. I hope you like it.”
“I like anything ‘alla vodka.’ Even ‘vodka alla vodka.’”
“Girl after my own heart.” We share a limp high-five in front of Aiden’s face. “I’m Rosella, by the way. General Counsel.” I nod—knowledgeably, I think, but she obviously sees through me. “General Fun Blocker. Chief Legal Bore,” she explains. “If you’ve heard Aiden bitching about someone at head office, it’s probably me.”
“We just bitch about her love life,” says a black guy in preppy glasses, drizzling oil on a piece of bread. “Work this one out, Cat. Rosella just broke up with someone because he ate an apple with a knife.”