by Caz Frear
“A knife and fork.” Rosella’s face is pure exasperation. “Stop leaving out the fork, Zach. It makes me look picky.”
“You are picky.” That’s the third guy: thirties, beige, unremarkable in every way except for an impressively straight side-part.
Rosella’s still gunning for Zach. “And you need to get your facts right. I haven’t broken up with him; I’m doing the slow fade.” She looks at me. “You know, taking longer to reply to texts, dodging concrete plans, that sort of thing. I figured it’s kinder than dumping him . . .”
“No way is it kinder,” says Zach. “It’s cruel. It gives the illusion of hope.”
Rosella cringes. “I know, I know, but I just can’t face ‘the conversation.’ He’s so sensitive, he might cry.” Her gaze back on me again. “Honestly, Cat, I don’t know whether to fuck him or breastfeed him half the time—you know the type, right?”
I know I need wine and plenty of it. I’d been expecting small talk, a bit of shop talk, probably an inevitable stumble into politics at some point. I hadn’t expected to walk straight onto the set of Sex and the City.
But I like it. I like them. Their abrasiveness is pure theater.
“Anyway, I’ll tell you who’s picky.” Rosella points at Side-Part while telepathically filling my wine glass to the brim. “Kyle broke up with a guy because he called him the most brilliant man he’d ever met.” She flops back in an exaggerated huff. “That’s picky, Cat. When you can get dumped for giving a compliment, all bets are off, right?”
Kyle and his side-part are unrepentant. “That’s not a compliment, it’s hero worship. And I don’t want to be brilliant. I don’t want to be fucking Iron Man. I just want to be me. Tell me that’s not weird, Cat?”
Me again, Cat, Cat, Cat, Cat, as though everyone else’s opinions have been canvassed then discounted.
“Not weird at all.” I take a large gulp of wine then turn the spotlight on Aiden. “Hey, you’ve never told me I’m the most brilliant woman you’ve ever met.”
“See, your time-keeping lets you down.” His goofy grin cracks wider. “And remembering to switch plugs off. And talking through films. And leaving orange peel on the sofa.”
Rosella brandishes her attack-napkin. “Just say the word, Cat.”
“So are you an East Londoner too?” asks the older guy, who by the process of elimination is definitely CEO Jack. “Aiden says it’s the place to be.”
“Aiden’s been in London for two years and thinks he’s an expert.” A fond grin toward my London Oracle. “And sorry, to answer your question, no. I’m from North London and I live in South London. A place called Tooting—categorically not ‘the place to be’ but the rents are less eye-watering.”
“Oh right, I thought you guys lived together?”
“As good as,” says Aiden.
“He lives closer to town. It’s a handy pied à terre.”
That gets me a laugh from Jack and a prod with a breadstick from Aiden.
“And you’re a cop?”
“Yeah, I think we established that with the Miss Marple thing.” Zach’s smirk dilutes the sharp tone.
“Zach gets antsy at the word ‘cop’ because he’s got a criminal record,” says Rosella.
“Aha, Perry Mason, I think you need to get your facts right.” Zach pulls her headscarf down. Her curls spring up, electrocution style. “I got fired for shoplifting a pair of Calvin Kleins when I worked at Macy’s,” he explains to me. “But they didn’t call the cops. They even paid me for the shift.”
Jack pulls the conversation back. “A cop, though. That’s a real vocation. Did you always want to help people?”
Kyle groans. “Jesus, Jack, she’s not Miss Alabama 1993!”
Aiden roars. A sound that justifies every mistake I’ve ever made.
“Nah, it was the taser that sold me, Jack. Seriously, the power of taking someone down with that bad boy. Can’t beat it.”
His face is frozen.
“I think she might be joking,” says Rosella, patting him on the shoulder.
“Anyway, isn’t what you do a vocation?” I say, deflecting the question. I don’t want to be Cat the Cop tonight, the romanticized public servant, protecting the mean streets of London with her steel resolve and warm heart.
“A vocation?” His tone says I’m mad. “Are you serious? Is that another joke? I was going to be a marine biologist. My life was going to look like something out of a Caribbean vacation brochure. But then I didn’t get the grades in college . . .”
“But you do make triple the paycheck,” Zach reminds him.
“I was going to be Sheryl Crow,” says Rosella, fixing her scarf back in place.
A gut punch when I least expect it. In an instant, it’s May 1998 and I’m in the back of Dad’s car. Maryanne Doyle in the passenger seat, Sheryl Crow on the radio. Dad and Maryanne singing along, badly, to that song—that one about whatever makes you happy can’t be so bad.
If there was ever a song that summed up Dad’s philosophy on life.
“I wanted to design planes.” Aiden’s voice edges Maryanne closer. I gulp my wine, praying it does its magic quickly. “Didn’t matter that I couldn’t draw or that I hadn’t set foot near an airport, never mind a fecking plane—I’d seen Air Force One a few times, that was good enough for me. I wouldn’t have had a clue what a risk analyst was, though. There wasn’t great call for them around Mulderrin.”
I plaster on a smile. “I didn’t know that, about the planes.”
“Ah, there’s lots of things you don’t know about me.”
“Lots of things you won’t want to know either,” adds Jack.
“Yeah, thanks for that, boss man.”
Jack laughs, throwing his hands up in placation. “Well, it’s the truth. Trust me, there’s plenty about Amy I wish I could un-know. I won’t go into it before we eat. Some of it’s beyond gross . . .”
Kyle says, “Yeah, Amy’s so gross, Jack only got her pregnant five times.”
“Wow, five kids,” I say. “That’s a basketball team.”
“Well, four and a fetus. She’s due in October . . . that’s if she hasn’t thrown herself in the Hudson.”
“The heat,” explains Rosella. “It was ninety-two when we left on Monday.”
“But it feels closer to a hundred,” says Jack.
“It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity,” Aiden says with a grin, reciting the line like he’s learned it in class. “Apparently, we have it easy here.”
“Remind me of that next time I’m putting the bedsheets in the freezer.”
“So have you ever been to New York, Cat?” It’s the standard question but Rosella’s tone is laden with something more meaningful.
“I’ve never been to America,” I say before realizing I have. “Oh well, Disney World Florida when I was ten. But we never left the resort. Does that count?”
“No.” Zach is quite clear about this.
“New York’s definitely on the list, though.” The standard response.
She hits the table, delighted, eyes shining. “Oh, you’d love it. You would. You’d absolutely love it.” She’s probably right, although I’m baffled at how she’s arrived at this assumption, knowing very little about me, except I like pasta and vodka and Irish risk analysts. “I moved from San Jose in 2013. Always thought I was a West Coast girl, it was going to be a two-year adventure, nothing more.” Her other hand comes down. “Best thing I ever did. The West Coast has got the better beaches, no two ways about that. But New York is everything. The hope, the energy, the food, the people. What did JFK say?—Most cities are a noun. New York is a verb.”
I’m not sure that even makes sense, but I am sure I’m being pitched to. It’s not my spidey sense tingling, or my twitchy detective nose at full snuffle—it’s more the fact that that’s the longest anyone’s spoken without someone else cutting in or contradicting.
“We’ll get there, right?” I say to Aiden. “I’ve always fancied New York at Christmas.”
Aiden smiles at Rosella, who smiles at Jack, who smiles at the sight of our huge, gluttonous starters finally arriving. Squeezing my hand under the table, Aiden says, “You never know, babe, you never know.”
But of course I know. I’m the last person he should try to hoodwink. They haven’t come all this way for the pasta, or to swap one mortal heat for another. They’re talking to Aiden about a project, I know it. He said ages ago that a three-month stint might be on the horizon. That it was the norm, hard to say no to if you get the call-up.
And what’s three months, anyway? It’s a six-hour flight. A place I’ve always wanted to visit. With wine in my bloodstream and the Manhattan skyline in my head, I find myself smiling too.
And then my phone rings. Parnell. Who else?
I stand up. “Sorry, I need to take this. You all crack on.” I mouth another apology at Aiden, but he doesn’t notice. His chili king prawns are more than making up for me.
“Hey, Sarge, you still hard at it?” I’m on the street now. Soho is being Soho: a glorious, beer-soaked beehive, chock-full of tattoos and tourists and everything between. “Any joy?”
“I wouldn’t call it joy. I’ve been stuck listening to Swaines and Flowers going another ten rounds over Brexit.”
“Oh dear. Was the boss there?”
“No. So while the cat’s away . . .”
“The mice will hurl insults at each other. What kicked it off this time?”
“Started with Swaines’ mum stockpiling olive oil, finished with the Irish border.”
“Oh, and they’re both experts on the complexities of the backstop, are they?”
“Hey, we’re all politicians now, kiddo. Makes you long for the time that only nerds and intellectuals gave a damn. Still, it beats Flowers moaning on about his blistered feet—just.”
“Urgh. Do you mind, I’m just about to eat.”
Parnell’s voice goes up an octave. “At nine forty-five? You’ll pay for that tomorrow. You’re supposed to give your food time to go down before bed. Four or five hours, they say.”
Work-Dad strikes again.
“How do you know I won’t be up for another four or five hours? I am a Bright Young Thing, you know.”
“You’ll be a Tired Young Thing. I need you in early. We have a date with Church Guy.”
“Wow, you found him?”
“Of course. Was it ever in question? He turned up on CCTV a few streets away from the church getting into a very nice Lexus.”
“So does he have a name?”
“Dale Peters. Car’s registered to a Nottingham address. His wife was a bit stunned by a couple of Nottinghamshire’s finest ringing her doorbell on a Thursday night. She was expecting a Chinese takeaway.”
“For two?”
“He wasn’t home. He’s still down here, apparently. Anyway, she gave us his number and long story short, he’s agreed to attend a voluntary interview at seven thirty a.m. tomorrow.”
Which means I’ll be in for six thirty a.m, prepping. Goodnight, Bright Young Thing.
“And is this early bird lawyering up, as my New York chums would say?”
“I’ve done the usual. Told him he’s welcome to, but it’ll be quicker if he doesn’t.” Ah, the old favorite. You could call it a lie; we call it an intentionally false suggestion. “I doubt he will, though. He seemed more interested in how long it was going to take than his legal rights. He runs his own consultancy—something to do with ecology—and he’s a very busy man, don’tcha know?”
I laugh, picturing Parnell’s face. “I bet that went down well.”
“I let it pass. He’ll find out tomorrow he’s not the only busy man in town.” After four close years, I know every shift in Parnell’s tone. Something’s coming. I step back into the doorway, shielding every word from the babble and zing of Thursday night Soho. “You see, I’ve been doing a little digging into Mr. Dale Peters and guess what? He didn’t have his lovely Lexus back in 2012; he had an equally lovely Saab. It got scrapped though. Scrapyard sent the details to the DVLA on 5th March 2012.”
He doesn’t wait for me to do the math. “Eleven days after Holly disappeared.”
14
Last night wasn’t a late one. Thankfully, and unusually for me, my fear of missing out was trumped by my fear of not waking up, and so it’s with a clear head and a sharp eye that I sit across from Dale Peters. And he really isn’t doing himself any favors.
It’s the bacon brioche that gets me.
The takeaway coffee, I accept. Maybe he didn’t sleep well last night. Maybe he can’t function in the morning until he’s popped seven types of vitamin and downed two Americanos—he looks that type. Maybe he needs something to do with his hands—he doesn’t have a record so I can allow for first-time nerves; I’m not completely unreasonable. But tucking into breakfast? Saying that he knows it’s a bit rude but it’s the only chance he’ll get? I can’t accept that. Too casual. Way too relaxed. And it’s blatantly all an act, anyway. He only manages three bites, bless him. The first a huge maul like a lion attacking a carcass, the second less voracious, the third barely a nibble. The remainder sits stinking on the table, a greasy lump of proof that behind all the superficial charm and ceaseless gibber, his stomach’s tied up in knots.
“Anyway, apologies again for flitting off yesterday.” He clears his throat. He clears his throat a lot, actually. Could be hay fever, could be a stubborn bit of bacon, could be a sign of lying. We don’t know yet. “When I saw the time on the parking meter, I panicked. I had a meeting at Waterloo at two p.m., you see, and I was already cutting it fine. I fully intended to call your incident room later, but one drama led into another, you know how some days go? Then before I know it, I’m getting a hysterical call from my wife saying two policemen have been to the house. Wasn’t that a bit heavy-handed?”
Dale Peters comes across as a delicate guy, the kind who’d find a raised voice hysterical and an overzealous door-knock heavy-handed. While he’s certainly quite attractive—slight but athletic, with large hazel eyes and perfect capped teeth—there’s something so insipid about him, so “come and wipe your feet on me” that you almost can’t resist taking him up on the offer.
“‘Before you knew it?’” I repeat, looking down at my notes. “PC Holmes and PC Thakkar arrived at your home address at just after eight thirty p.m. That’s over seven hours since your ‘flit,’ as you call it. I’m calling it ‘your refusal to answer police questions,’ by the way.”
His cheeks flush. “Is that an offense? Maybe I should have a solicitor.”
Parnell shakes his head. “No, no offense, Dale. Completely your right. We only cautioned you as a formality, remember? Although, I’ll be honest, it doesn’t make us feel all warm and fuzzy toward you.”
“Look, I’m sorry,” he stutters. “It was a hectic afternoon. My client insisted on a drink following the meeting, and then I had to pop to Hamleys to pick up something for my daughter’s birthday—she collects Steiff bears.” One drama led to another—a fucking Steiff bear? “And after that I was starving so I went for an early supper just off Carnaby Street, and then it was gone seven before I realized I hadn’t been in touch and I thought . . . well . . .”
His excuses burn themselves out. He tries a doe-eyed look instead, but he’s thirty years too old for it to be anything less than embarrassing.
“And you thought what?” I ask. “That the entire Metropolitan Police would have left for the day? Put our chairs up on the desks and gone home for our dinner?” I grin at Parnell. “Chance would be a fine thing, huh?”
“You’ll have receipts for those, of course?” says Parnell. “The drinks, the bear, your dinner. We can check it all on CCTV but receipts would save time. And you owe us some time back, Dale.”
“I don’t have them on me, but I can bring them in later.” He shifts forward, shoulders stiffening. “Though why do you need to check up on me?”
“How did you know about the memorial service?” I say, ignoring his
question.
“Twitter. I was following the news and I saw a post, all the details. And I was due to be in London anyway so . . .”
“And how did you know Holly Kemp?”
“Well, um, she was just a friend, an acquaintance, really. Someone from way back. I happened to be in North London so I . . .”
I put a hand up. “Right, back up a minute—how old are you, Dale?”
He’s confused. “I’m not with you.”
I shoot Parnell an amused glance, land it back on Peters. “A little heads-up for you here. Our questions are going to get a whole lot harder than the type a three-year-old could answer, so you might want to sharpen up a bit.”
“I’m forty-five. Why?”
He looks younger. Could be good genes but my money’s on a three-step skin routine.
“Well, it’s just that you said you knew Holly from ‘way back.’ ‘Way back’ implies you’d known her for years, but she was only twenty-two when she died and you’d have been thirty-nine. So how old was she when you ‘acquainted’ her?”
“Oh, I see. Um, I’d only recently acquainted her, not long before she died.” Is he for real? He really thinks I mean acquainted and not shagged. There’s naive and there’s gormless and then there’s Dale fucking Peters. “Um, when I said ‘way back,’ I meant I hadn’t seen her in years.”
“Well, you wouldn’t have done. She’s been rotting in a field in Cambridgeshire.”
His hand flies to his mouth. For a moment, I think he might puke, but he styles it out, massaging his velvet-smooth jaw.
Parnell offers fake censure. “OK, Cat, enough.”
“What? I’m not telling him anything he won’t have seen on the news.”
“I don’t think they put it quite so brutally,” says Peters, his voice shaky and horrified, like a nineteenth-century woman amid an attack of the vapors.
“Then I apologize.” There’s no way I sound sincere. “Now, picking up on what you said about ‘happening’ to be in North London. Your wife, Debbie, is also your PA, is that correct?” Debbie & Dale 4Eva. I picture teenage sweethearts. The undisputed prom king and queen. Married at twenty-five, kids a few years later. And then one of them winds up in the middle of a murder investigation. “Well, Debbie ran PC Holmes and PC Thakkar through your appointments for that day.” I sift through my notes, winding Peters tighter. “You had a breakfast meeting at your hotel in Earls Court at eight a.m., followed by another meeting at Brunel University at ten a.m., and then a three p.m. at Waterloo, not two p.m. as you said, so you did have time to stop and talk to us, after all. But anyway, my point is that’s Central London-West London-Central London. You weren’t scheduled to be anywhere near North London, and I’d go as far to say—as someone who knows London well—a detour to Dollis Hill would be a major pain in the proverbial. And that tells me two things, Dale.” I give him a face full of disappointment. “One, you’re lying to us, and two, getting to that memorial service meant a great deal to you. Holly Kemp meant a great deal to you. Can you tell us why?”