by Caz Frear
And.
“How’s Finn? Is he excited about soccer camp?”
“No! He’s made this friend, Callum, and he’d rather be over at his. They’ve got a games room, if you please. A pinball machine, air hockey, giant Jenga, the lot. I mean, he does something in HR and she’s a midwife—how on earth do they afford a games room?”
Funny how Jacqui never applied the same critique to our parents. She was a stay-at-home mum and he was a “driver” for a “businessman” of some sort. How on earth did they afford a five-bedroom house, two cars, three holidays a year, and a biweekly therapist for their youngest child—me?
Of course, I should have stayed at Aiden’s. I hadn’t really thought of this when I’d headed home last night: the fact that Serena Bailey isn’t just an East Londoner, but she lives barely a mile from Aiden’s place. Just a twenty-minute stroll along the Regent’s Canal, which sure beats the hour of sweltering on public transport that I’ve just endured.
Serena’s home is an ugly 1960s low-rise. A squat, gray building, wrapped in precarious-looking balconies, and as her flat is on the ground floor, she hasn’t even got the perk of glistening canal views to gaze over, just boarded-up shops. Thirsty and frizzy-haired, I ring the doorbell. A serious little girl verging on the side of plump, with a ruckus of curls forming no determinable shape, answers the door wearing a Minions costume. It’s like staring at my childhood self, except I’d have been Buzz Lightyear.
Serena’s voice from inside. “Who’s that, Pop-Pop?”
“A lady in a pretty dress.” Bless her, my linen number is creased, damp, and stuck to me all over, but I thought wearing civvies might make Serena relax more. Encourage her to open up. Woman to woman. Summer dress to summer dress.
She comes out into the narrow hallway, her swingy brown ponytail now in plaits, a straw bag slung over her shoulder, car keys in her hand. It’s almost painful to watch the shift in her expression when she sees me. Her realization that this isn’t going to be a Saturday like all others: traffic jams, kids’ parties, bathtime, wine.
“Oh, it’s you,” she says, hope dying on her face. “What is it? We were just on our way out.”
“Can I come in? It won’t take long.”
“Who is it?” Another voice and then a man appears, toweling his hair as if not long out of the shower. He’s hefty, wholesome, and rugby-ish. “Hello.” He looks to Serena for an intro.
She comes forward, a smile painting over her panic. “Cat, come in, come in. This is Robbie.” I raise my hand, completely bewildered. “Hon, this is Cat. She’s been helping out at school.”
She lies well, and so easily.
“God, I’d completely forgotten you were coming round,” she says, hitting her forehead, then turning to Robbie. “Hon, can you take Poppy? I’m really, really sorry. I know it’s a pain, but Cat and I have got to get some stuff sorted for the end-of-term assembly.”
Poppy pipes up. “It’s my friend’s birthday. We’re going to Hobbledown again, but only four of us this time. When we went for my birthday last week, the whole of Year One came. Robbie got us a coach.” It comes out as one long word, one long breathless brag.
“Wow, lucky you!” I throw a “no idea” look at the grown-ups.
“A farm, way over the other side of London,” explains Robbie, lacing his feet into a pair of Converse. “Another three-hour round trip. Happy days.”
“You’re the best.” Serena hands him the car keys. “But it starts at midday, you need to go now—go, go, go!”
A minute later they’re gone and it’s just us. Me, Serena, and the obvious question.
She answers before I ask: “He doesn’t know about all that business.”
OK.
“Well, that’s your decision, I suppose. Although I’m going to ask why.”
“I wasn’t in a great place back then. My life was a bit chaotic, just . . . well, stuff, it doesn’t matter now. Anyway, I met Robbie a few years after and . . .”
“He isn’t Poppy’s dad?”
She shakes her head. “No. And as I was in a much better place by the time I met him, I wanted to leave the past in the past.”
So the perfect witness wasn’t so perfect.
The model citizen was just a schmuck with baggage like the rest of us.
And who am I to judge? But then again, it’s my job to judge. It’s what pays my bills, buys my takeaways, enables me to at least make a stab at clearing my overdraft every month—my ability to drag secrets out of others and make judgments on what I find.
My hypocrisy astounds even me.
“So is that why you left Riverdale? Moved east? Changed numbers? You were leaving the past in the past.”
“Something like that.”
We’re still in the hallway, facing off like chess pieces. “Look, Serena, can we sit down? I need to go through a few things with you.”
I head through the nearest door, assuming it’s the living room. She follows behind, as though I’m the host and she’s the visitor. The room’s cheery and lived-in, coloring books on the floor, breakfast dishes still on the table. I park myself on the arm of a battered leather sofa. Serena stands behind an armchair, shielding herself.
“You seem a bit anxious,” I say.
“It’s just . . . I don’t like having to lie to Robbie. What’s this about?”
“You didn’t have to lie to him.” She shoots me a hot glare. “Look, I don’t know what else you haven’t told him, but you didn’t do anything wrong by ID’ing Masters, unless there’s something I don’t know?” She’s gripping the back of the armchair. “Well, is there?”
Quiet. Just the frenzied buzz of a fly behind the curtain and the distant hum of a lawnmower somewhere.
“Fine,” I say. Have it your way. “So you remember I said we were looking at Holly Kemp’s case again? Well, that means looking at everything. Everyone. Reinterviewing, checking all statements again. And the thing is, Serena, something’s come up. A possible discrepancy in your account.”
Her face twitches. “How do you mean?”
“Well, you said to us, and to DC Ferris in 2012, that the reason you turned back and consequently saw Masters with Holly, is that you thought you’d left your bank card in The Northcote.” She moves her shoulders, yeah so? “Well, we’ve checked your bank records—we can go back seven years—and there’s no record of you paying for anything in The Northcote. No record of you paying for anything in Clapham, full stop. And you mentioned you’d bought a coffee too—the coffee you splashed on Holly’s coat.”
I brace myself for outrage, the familiar medley of “You can’t do that!” and “How dare you!”
Instead, she says, “I’d have used cash for the coffee, it’d have only been a couple of pounds. I must have used cash in The Northcote too, then. I honestly can’t remember.”
I frown. “But you remember so much. And you were very specific about that detail.”
“Like I said, there was a lot going on in my life back then. I must have got mixed up.”
“No, no, no, Serena. You were adamant, then and now. You’ve never wavered, in fact. Are you now saying that maybe you didn’t see Masters and Holly?”
“I did.” Barely a whisper, then louder. “I did.”
“We’ve also spoken with your old school—Riverdale Primary. According to their records, you were present that day. All day.”
She pales to a shade that gives Brandon Keefe a run for his money.
“I . . . I don’t know what to tell you. I left early. I said I didn’t feel well. I felt bad doing it but . . .” She pauses, swallowing hard. “Look, I don’t know why I wasn’t marked absent. I’d have told Mrs. Gopal’s secretary I was leaving. Ask her.”
It’s a challenge, not a suggestion. She knows as well as I do that it’s hardly worth asking someone to recall a two-second conversation they had six years ago, one that was of no importance to them at all.
“Right, so let me get this straight. You lied to your employer, dumped
your lesson on a probably already overstretched colleague, and left your pupils in the lurch, all so you could bunk off to buy Lady Gaga tickets. Is that what you’re saying?”
Chin high. “Yes. So?”
If she’d shown a dot of shame, I might have believed her. As it goes, her petulance makes me even more suspicious.
“Well, at least we’ve got that cleared up.” I give a sardonic smile. “Now, back to the ‘mix-up’ regarding your bank card.”
“Jesus Christ, sorry I’m not perfect! Sorry I got one detail wrong.” I’m getting the full teenage temper now.
“No need to be sorry,” I say, sounding how I imagine she sounds when she’s ever so slightly disappointed with a pupil. “It does make me question every other detail you’ve given, though.”
“Fine, you do that.” She gestures to the door. “Now I’d like you to leave, please. I’ve got a busy day.”
“You see, there’s a lie right there, Serena. You thought you were going to Hobbledown.” I throw my hands wide. “And then I turn up and get you out of it. You should be thanking me. You’ve got your day back.”
“Believe me, I’ve got plenty of things to do that don’t involve sitting around justifying myself to someone who only graduated last week.”
While I’ll take that as a compliment, I’m bored of her newfound sass already. I slip down off the arm of the sofa and snuggle among the scatter cushions, making it clear I’m not going anywhere. She stares at me with those wide green eyes. I stare back harder with my baby blues.
“What was going on in your life at that time, Serena? Because if it affects the accuracy of your statement, we need to know, and I’m staying right here until I do.” Nothing. “You mentioned issues with an ex the first time we met? Were you distracted that day, maybe?”
More silence.
“I’m deadly serious, Serena. What did Robbie say it is? A three-hour round trip? Well, I haven’t got plenty to do. In fact, I’ve got nothing planned at all, except a load of washing, so three hours doesn’t bother me. More is fine. I’d rather be in here than outside, truth be told. I’m not exactly what you’d call a sun worshipper.”
“I was what you’d call a prostitute.”
She breaks the stare and looks off to the side, drinking in a photo of Robbie and Poppy on a waterslide, their hands thrust high in the air, loving life.
“OK . . .” I nod slowly, giving myself time to compute. “Can you put that into context for me. I’m not sure . . .”
“I was meeting a client that afternoon in Clapham.” She walks around and virtually collapses onto the armchair, the look on her face pure contempt. For the client? For herself? Or maybe me, the person who dragged it all up again. “I started in my early twenties. I didn’t plan it, but have you any idea how hard it is to survive on a teaching assistant’s salary in London? And then by the time I’d qualified and was earning a bit more money, I’d got used to earning a lot more, so I kept doing it. Doing them.” A sour smile. “Anyway, I wasn’t doing it a lot by that time, 2012. I was completely focused on my job, but then . . .” She takes a deep sigh. “There was this one guy. He’d been a client, but then he’d moved back to America, which was gutting. He paid really well, see, and he was nice too, not like some. He was over in London that February for work and he called me up. He was staying in Clapham, but he was busy in the evenings so he asked to see me for an hour that afternoon, and I couldn’t afford to turn down £500 cash. I didn’t earn that in a week teaching.” She draws in another breath, fixing me with a righteous glare. “Everything else was true. I cut back through Valentine Street and saw Masters and Holly, exactly as I said.”
“Exactly?” I need to drill down. “So you passed Holly at the gate and then you turned around and saw them both at the door. Why? Why did you turn around?”
“More or less what I said. I thought I’d left my bank card at his place. He’d been doing coke. I hadn’t—I swear on my daughter’s life, I only had a couple of glasses of wine. But I’d given him my card”—she mimes a chopping action—“because his wallet was downstairs.” She wraps her arms around herself, righteousness morphing into self-pity. “So you can see why I didn’t admit this at the time, and why I’ve never brought it up with Robbie. It’s just all so upsetting. I want to forget it ever happened. I wish I’d never walked down that street.”
“Funnily enough, Serena, I think Holly Kemp would have said the same.”
20
Victoria Park, also known as the People’s Park, is the largest and most popular green space in East London, attracting nearly ten million visitors a year.
Around nine million of those visitors appear to have descended today.
At least half a million are in this queue for a burger.
Good job Aiden and I have got plenty to talk about.
“So she says to me, ‘I think you’ve got great potential and SO15 needs officers like you,’ and then she says she’ll be recruiting once she makes superintendent. That’s a job offer, right? Or do you reckon it’s just hot air?”
“Search me,” Aiden says, kissing me on the forehead.
I look up. “Well, that’s very helpful. Thanks for your input.”
“What do you want me to say? Sounds like a job offer to me, but you know the woman.”
This isn’t like him. Aiden’s a talker, a theorist. Doesn’t matter if it’s job offers, betting odds, or how to get Tabasco sauce out of every known fabric, you better believe he’s got an opinion on it. I let it go, putting it down to hunger. Or the fact I said I’d sort out a picnic this afternoon and instead we’ve been queuing for fifteen minutes for a splat of meat and processed cheese.
“That’s the thing, I don’t really know her. She’s smart and ambitious and she’s got this kind of Snow Queen vibe going on, all supercool and regal, but maybe I shouldn’t be thinking about working for someone I don’t know, not properly. God knows Steele can be challenging sometimes, but at least I know where I am with her.”
It’s hard to forget Dyer’s warning, though: “Don’t let your loyalty to Steele hold you back.”
“So what’s the SO stand for?” asks Aiden. “Don’t tell me—Sexy Officer?”
“How did you guess?” I give him a smile. “Specialist Operations.”
“Right. Very 007.”
It’s still there. Not a tetchiness, as such, but a sense that he’s not really here. I rack my brains, panicking that I’ve forgotten an important date. Maryanne’s birthday? The anniversary of his mum’s death? Maybe even the anniversary of his dad’s death? Aiden’s never had a good word to say about the man who ruled with his fists and cared only about his next pint, but grief is a knotty bugger and time can gold-plate even the worst of pricks.
“Are you OK?” We’re nearly at the front now and I haven’t picked the best time to ask.
“I’m fine. Just starving.” He catches the server’s eye, turning on the Aiden razzle-dazzle. “You all right, mate? Give me one of those double quarter pounders, would ye? With cheese and fried onions. Plenty of fried onions—like, whatever you think is plenty, double that. Good man! And whatever this one wants.”
“This one wants a halloumi burger,” I tell the server. “So come on, what do you think?”
“Each to their own. I’d rather chew a flip-flop.”
“You know what I mean, funny guy.” Although maybe he doesn’t; he hardly seems switched on today. “Do you think I should take this job?”
“So you think it is a job offer?” He pays with a twenty, receives a pitiful amount of change in return. “You should do what you want to do. Although as far as I can tell in your job, moving to another team just means being lied to by a different type of criminal.”
“Substitute ‘criminal’ for ‘colleague’ and you could say the same about anyone’s job. Do you know, over the course of a ten-minute conversation, over sixty percent of people tell at least two lies.” God knows why I said that. My self-destructiveness knows no bounds. “Hey, shall we go an
d sit by the lake?”
So we sit by the lake. We eat our burgers. We smile at people passing by, parents chasing children, children chasing dogs, dogs chasing Frisbees, and a few blatantly stoned teens.
“Must be easier to be one of those,” Aiden says, watching the ducks and geese criss-cross each other. “More straightforward. ‘What can’t speak, can’t lie’—isn’t that a quote?”
My head’s on his shoulder. “Sounds like something Parnell would come out with.”
“Have you talked to Parnell? About making a move?”
I haven’t, and it’s not like I haven’t had the chance. We spent great swaths of yesterday waiting for Brandon Keefe to dry out, and I was on the phone to him only an hour ago, filling him in on Serena Bailey. He didn’t sound rushed, I could have asked his advice then.
“I don’t want to hurt his feelings,” I explain.
“Christ, Cat, he’s a grown man! He must have made a few moves himself.”
“I know. It’s just he’ll ask why and I don’t want to lie to him, but I don’t want to tell him the truth either.”
“Which is?”
How to put this? I lift my head and turn to face him, cross-legged. “I think I’m coasting in MIT4. It’s not just what Dyer said. I met this DI this week, Susie Grainger. Aiden, she’s more or less the same age as me and she’s high-tailing it up the ladder while I’m just plodding along. Don’t get me wrong, I’m on a great team. Everyone’s competent, highly competent, and Steele’s an absolute legend, but honestly, who gives me a run for my money? Parnell and Renée are ace but neither of them is ambitious. Seth’s good, but he could give it all up tomorrow and go and live in Downton Abbey. Flowers, although it pains me to say, is good too, but he hasn’t got the savvy to go far, and Cookey hasn’t got the ability. And Swaines . . . well, he’s just so pretty that he’ll sail through life getting everything handed to him, so he’s not real competition.”
“That pretty, huh?”
I grin. “Don’t worry, not my thing. Too vanilla flavored. Oh, and there’s Emily, and I still can’t work out why she applied to be a police officer. I think she’s hoping there’ll be a fly-on-a-wall documentary one day and she’ll get spotted by Hollywood.”