by Caz Frear
Steele flops back heavily, her eyes boring into mine. “Why though, Kinsella? Why would she lie? Is she a crazy?”
A crazy. A fruitloop. A cop-botherer. A loon. They’re not nice, the labels we give to those sad, rejected creatures who insert themselves into police investigations for attention and nothing more.
But Serena Bailey isn’t one of them, I’m sure of it.
“If anything, boss, she’s always shied away from attention. Her partner doesn’t even know about the case, and I’m pretty sure she didn’t mention it to anyone at her old school.”
“So I’ll ask you again, if she’s not a crazy and she’s not mistaken, then what is she?” I hold Steele’s stare but I don’t have an easy answer. “I mean, are you saying she shot Holly and decided to blame the nearest available serial killer?” I twitch my shoulders, saying nothing. “I’m being serious, Kinsella. Are you?”
I don’t think I am?
“No, of course not.”
“Good. Thank Christ for that! ’Cos now Masters is out of the frame—however god awful that fallout is going to be—I say we focus solely on Simon Fellows.” She thumps her reasons out on the desk. “He has access to guns. He was named by the victim as someone she knew and was scared of. And finally, you guys are telling me that Spencer Shaw pretty much cacked his pants when you mentioned Fellows’ name, which speaks volumes.”
But proves nothing.
“So what are we doing about Bailey?” I ask, intent on seeing my pet project through.
“You interview her again, of course. You tell her we have proof she’s lying and throw in Perverting the Course of Justice for fun. I’d say we’d have a hard time proving it, but we can see what it shakes up, at least.”
“And Dyer?” asks Parnell.
“And Dyer,” she repeats with a world-beating sigh. “How do you solve a problem like Tess Dyer?” Steele’s words might be straight out of a film, but her face is a gritty drama. So grave and stricken, it almost pains me to look. “Right, this is what we’re going to do. Nothing. We sit tight for now—for today, maybe even half a day. I just need some time with this, m’dears. I need to work out what this means, who I need to talk to first. So top secret, you remember?”
“JFK,” I say.
“Watergate,” adds Parnell.
“Bloody weapons of mass destruction,” we chime in unison.
Unfortunately for Serena Bailey, it’s the end of the school day when I rock up at St. Joseph of Whatever-it’s-called, and I strongly suspect my presence, notably my warrant card and my request that Miss Bailey come with me immediately, is going to be the talk of many a WhatsApp parents’ group tonight. Fortunately for me, once we’re back at the station, Serena says she doesn’t want a solicitor. Or more specifically, that she doesn’t have time to wait for one, as if she isn’t home before Robbie at six, he’ll start asking questions and that’s the last thing she wants.
Apart from me asking questions. I’m fairly sure she wants that less.
“This is ridiculous,” she asserts; she’s been asserting all over the place since we got back. “It was him, Masters. He was standing at the door, smiling, wearing that red lumberjack shirt, welcoming her in.”
“I don’t believe you, Serena.”
My tone is blithe, singsong: Jacqui warning Finn that she knows for sure he hasn’t brushed his teeth. In contrast, Serena Bailey’s like the star of a YouTube tutorial—How to Tell When Someone’s Lying. Wild, whirling hand gestures. Feet shuffling under the table. And those eyes, those wide green eyes, darting left, right, anywhere but on mine.
“Because you can’t have seen him, Serena. We’ve now got proof, you see. Bank records prove Christopher Masters was nowhere near London, let alone Clapham, that day.”
She blushes, her skin matching with her rose-pink shirt. “Then I must have been mistaken.”
“Just like that?” I half-laugh, keeping it light for now. “Six years of certainty and now ‘whoops, I made a boo-boo.’”
She pulls her ponytail over her shoulder, tugging at the ends, circling it around her finger. “Look, a man opened the door. He was wearing a check shirt. He was around fifty. They showed me a photo of Masters and there really was a strong similarity.” A shrug. “But if you’ve got proof that I got it wrong, then I’ll have to accept that I got it wrong. And I’m sorry. But it doesn’t change the fact that I saw Holly go into that house.”
“Describe her to me again.”
“Holly?” She drops her ponytail, bringing her hands to her lap. Still, almost rigid. “Salon-flicky blond hair, really glamorous. She was wearing this gorgeous white coat—well, off-white, cream, I suppose.” She makes a sweeping motion with both hands. “Huge fur collar, belted, gorgeous. I half-thought about asking her where she got it.”
Verbatim. A computer throwing out a programmed statement.
“Very good.” I’m tempted to applaud. “Hey, what do you think of this?” I clear my throat. “I am the star and I mark out the way. To Jesus, the Lord, as the prophecies say.”
Understandably, she’s flummoxed.
“It was my one line in the Nativity,” I explain, grinning. “I re-hearsed it so much, I can still recite it, word for word, over twenty years later. Amazing, right?” I tap the side of my head. “Funny how things stick when you practice them enough times.” She swallows hard, getting the message, but I prattle on, leaving her to squirm. “Yeah, I was gutted, I don’t mind telling you—auditioned for Mary, got cast as the bloody star! Thought I was going to be trooping around the stage, looking all noble and dignified, clutching a Tiny Tears doll. Ended up suspended on a wire, dressed in leggings and gold lamé.” I sigh. “But then that’s life, eh? Never quite works out the way you planned. Although you’ve got Poppy, of course. She seems like a sweetie—did she have a good time at Hobbletown?”
“Hobbledown,” she corrects. I laugh at my own mistake, putting her at a tiny bit of ease again. “And yes, she did. She got to walk a llama. And then she saw another llama looking after a lamb, which was the sweetest thing ever, apparently.” Her eyes are shining, shoulders soft.
How to Tell When Someone’s Lying: Part 2:
Displaying obvious signs of relief that the difficult subject has been dropped.
Providing unnecessary, unasked-for details about llamas.
“She went for her sixth birthday, right?” Serena nods, blissfully unaware of the oncoming ambush. “So if Poppy’s six now, you must have been . . . um”—I tilt my head, pretending to grapple with the math—“four months pregnant when the whole Clapham thing went down?” I make a low whistle. “Christ, I bet you didn’t need that. I mean, you’re not long out of the hell of the first trimester, hoping for a bit of quiet time, maybe a bit of pregnancy ‘glow,’ and then, wham, you’re in the middle of a murder investigation.”
Her smile slips. “I suppose you’re going to try to claim pregnancy affected my eyesight.”
“No, but I think it affected your judgment.” I slide her statement across, pointing to the other nugget I’d noticed as I’d trawled back through her lies. “This is what you said to me about the client you were seeing: He’d been doing coke. I hadn’t—I swear on my daughter’s life, I only had a couple of glasses of wine.” Another whistle, this one disapproving. “Hey, you know, I try to live and let live about most things, Serena, as long as they’re within the law, obviously. But a couple of glasses of wine while pregnant? You do know the dangers, right?” She bristles, but it looks forced. “And—and this isn’t really my business, but . . . sleeping with a client when you’re pregnant? Isn’t that a bit—” I stop abruptly, putting my hands up in apology. “Ah no, scrap that, sorry. Honestly, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not my place to judge, I’m only here for the facts.” I give her a tight smile. “We’ll need your client’s details, of course.”
She tugs at her ponytail again. “I don’t have them. I haven’t seen him since that day.”
“A name would be a start.”
/>
“I only ever knew him as Dave.”
Dave. She isn’t even trying now. At least she used to tell a good lie, a solid eight out of ten for creativity. Buying Lady Gaga tickets from a phantom con man in a pub ranks a thousand leagues higher than “I only ever knew him as Dave.”
“OK, how about the address of where he was staying? We might be able to trace him that way.”
“I don’t remember.”
I give her a puzzled look. “Serena, you’re not being overly helpful, given it’s in your interest for us to find him. ‘Dave’ can corroborate your story. He can confirm you were really there that day.”
“My story? And what do you mean, of course I was fucking there.”
Swearing now. Interesting.
“Then why can’t we find one single sighting of you on CCTV?”
“I . . .” She falters quickly. “I don’t know. I can’t answer that.”
I rub my chin. “I suppose, in fairness, it was raining. Lots of people under umbrellas. You could have been one of them.”
“Yeah, I must have been.” She nods, happy that’s sorted, then looks at her watch. “Look, it’s gone five, I need to get back. I take it I’m free to leave?”
“Except you didn’t have an umbrella. That was one of the reasons you remembered Holly, because she didn’t have one either.”
“I said, can I leave?” She picks up her bag, presumptive.
Problem is, it’s not entirely presumptive. I can’t stop her from leaving. Like Steele implied, we’d struggle to get this past the CPS at the moment, and I’m still not even sure what this is.
Still, might as well go for it; hurl the kitchen sink at her.
“One more question, then you can leave. But think carefully before answering, because my boss is already bandying around terms like ‘Perverting the Course of Justice.’” Her breath quickens, my hoped-for response. “Have you ever come across a man called Simon Fellows?”
“No, I don’t think so. Who is he?”
Face completely blank. At a guess, I’d say genuinely blank.
Not my hoped-for response.
“So, to be absolutely clear, a man called Simon Fellows did not pay you, or influence you in any way, to say you saw Holly with Masters? Because the type of money Simon Fellows could pay would come in very handy to someone facing the prospect of single motherhood. He’d pay a lot more than £500, if he thought you could be useful to him.”
She stands, mouth puckered. “Could he? Great! Then give him my number, whoever he is. Robbie’s about to be made redundant and the car needs a new gearbox.”
It pains me to admit it, but for the first time I think I almost believe her.
Almost.
24
“Meet me at South Kensington” sounds more like a 1950s rom-com than an instruction from a senior officer, but less than an hour later I’m striding down Montrose Grove, heading back to Oliver Cairns’ place. Up ahead, Steele’s standing under a cherry-blossom tree a little way down from the house, tapping away on her phone, her small frame engulfed in pink. There isn’t a breath of wind and the branches are eerily still, as if the heat has zapped all their energy and they can’t be bothered to move, like the rest of us. As I get closer, I notice that two petals have dropped onto Steele’s head—perfect pink on perfect black. I should probably tell her or move them. But I don’t. They look pretty.
And here, my wistfulness ends. Steele’s straight down to business.
“News?” she orders, sliding her phone into her bag as we start walking.
I take it from the top, filling her in on the Bailey interview. Her claims that she was mistaken. My belief she’s talking bullshit. The convenient unknown whereabouts of her alibi, “American Dave.” A lie about an umbrella.
“I think she was telling the truth about Fellows, though. I doubt she’s going to be our link.”
“That famous woo-woo working overtime, is it?”
“Depends if you think body language is woo-woo. I watched her squirm and blush and fidget with her hair for more than half an hour—except when she described Holly, then she went totally still, the way you do when you’re having to concentrate.” Steele nods, getting my point. “But when I mentioned Fellows . . . I dunno . . . it’s the first time she seemed natural. Genuine confusion. Her first response wasn’t outright denial, it was to ask who he was. That feels like a normal reaction to me.”
She nods again.
“So what are we doing back here?”
Or more to the point, what am I doing back here? Don’t get me wrong, I like Cairns—I’ve clearly got a soft spot for tall, loquacious Irish men—but I still feel like a teenager being forced to visit an aged relative with their mum.
“More context. I want to make sure I’ve got all my facts straight before I destroy someone’s career.” We walk up the steps to the front door. “And you’re impartial,” she adds, answering my un-asked question. “I want you watching, observing. You might pick up on something I don’t.”
It takes two rings of the bell and three knocks on the door before “All right, all right, give a man a chance,” can be heard, followed by painfully slow footsteps, shuffling closer, getting louder.
Finally, he opens the door. He’s wearing a full tuxedo, cummerbund and all.
“Oh.”
“Oh indeed.” Steele beams. “Look at you, James Bond. Are you off out?”
“No.” He winks at me. “I always dress like this for me dinner.”
“Very funny.”
We follow him into the aircraft-hangar living room, where there’s a duvet on one sofa, an array of medications on the coffee table, and an ever so slightly sour smell in the air. Nothing horrific; it’s completely bearable, but if I were to guess, I’d say he’s been cocooned in here for a few days, sleeping downstairs. One end of another sofa has been elevated with cushions. Cairns lowers himself onto it, unable to hide his pain.
Forget impartial—I feel emotional. Mum’s final months unwelcomingly springing to mind.
“So where are you off to, then?” asks Steele, sitting down. I follow suit.
“Nowhere. I was going to go the Emerald Society Summer Ball—big posh do at The Dorchester—but I just this minute decided I can’t be bloody bothered.”
“That’s a shame when you’re all dressed up, looking suave,” I say.
I’m being kind. He doesn’t look suave, he looks awful. Stooped and old, and even thinner, if that’s possible. His face a triangle of bone, the dark circles under his eyes made even darker by his waxy skin.
“I’m not feeling up to it, truth be told, Cat. I’ve had a rough few days.” A flick of his hand bats away the self-pity. “Anyway, it’s too fucking hot to be wearing a tux.” It’s also too fucking hot to have every window closed, and for one heartbreaking second I wonder if he hasn’t had the strength to open any. Sash windows can be heavy; the ones in our office are a bitch. “Now, would one of you ladies unclip this bow tie for me. My fingers are bad today. It took me nearly an hour to get the fucker on.”
In the absence of any movement from Steele, I oblige.
“Look, are you sure you feel up to a few questions?” Steele nods toward the duvet. “You must feel rough if you’ve been sleeping down here.”
“Ach.” Another flick of his hand. “’Tis easier than going up and down three flights of stairs. And sure, fire away. Although I’m going to be a bad host—if either of you want a drink, you can fetch it yourself.”
“We’re fine. Can we get you one?” “We” meaning me, presumably. Thankfully, he shakes his head. “OK, well, if you’re sure.”
“Glad of the company, Katie, love. I haven’t seen a soul in days. I didn’t realize when we were together how many of my friends were really Moira’s friends. And they fell away quick enough. Same as a lot of the old Met crowd. ’Twas nice seeing Tess again, though.”
“We’re actually here about Tess.” Steele’s face is stern, imploring. “But I need to know that I can talk to yo
u confidentially.”
“You have to ask that?”
A wry smile. “You’re too fond of Tess Dyer for your own good, Olly, but I’m actually trying to help her by coming to you first, by getting all the facts straight. I want you to bear that in mind, OK? If you go running to her with what I’m about to tell you, it could prompt her to make the wrong decision, and this has to be handled properly.”
“OK, now you’re scaring me, Kate. What? What is it?”
“Why was Tess requesting bank records?”
“Whose bank records?”
She rolls her eyes. “The Queen of England’s, Olly. Who the hell do you think I’m talking about? Masters’, back in 2012. Why would she have taken on that task personally? She’s heading up one of the most high-profile cases in London’s recent history and she’s got time to be sitting on hold to HSBC?”
He doesn’t answer straightaway, looking this way and that. “Look, I really can’t answer that, Kate, but you know yourself, when the case is high profile, when the stakes are that high, you want to oversee everything. God knows, I put pressure on her to oversee everything. Too much pressure. I can see that now.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Olly, but first, I don’t know that myself. I trust my team to do the work. I trust them with my life.” A part of me dies inside. Maryanne. Aiden. My family’s links to organized crime. The fact I toyed with the idea of leaving her for Dyer. The fact I’m still toying with the idea of leaving her for NYC. “And second, when we were here last time, you said something different. You said you were all about taking the pressure off her. Protecting her from herself, closing down ‘half-cocked’ theories and the like.”