About Dad and Maryanne.
3
London has its own velocity. A pulsing rhythm best played at high tempo.
Unless you’re trying to get somewhere, of course.
‘Two miles in twenty-five minutes. Ridiculous. Another thing I miss about Lyon.’
Dyer’s scowling at the traffic but I’m not missing anything right now. Not Parnell’s burger-scented Citroën, with its kid paraphernalia strewn across the back seat, nor the hurly-burly of the office, where we left Flowers arguing with everyone about whether ‘Roommate’ should be one word or two. No, for me the crawl towards Belmarsh is a welcome afternoon respite, and quite a deluxe respite too, due to the swankiness of Dyer’s car. Sleek and elegant, like the woman herself. Although away from the office – away from Steele, at a guess – she’s not quite so refined.
‘I hate this fucking heat,’ she says, one willowy arm jutting out the driver-side window. ‘You can’t sleep. You’re not hungry.’
‘Everyone’s got their feet out.’
‘Exactly.’ She drags her eyes from the road ahead, landing them squarely on me. ‘Nice suit, by the way. Although not the best colour for a heatwave, I wouldn’t have thought.’
Black, as most of my work wardrobe tends to be, which means I’m being slowly cremated as we inch through Woolwich, past the cheap high street stores and their displays of flimsy summer rags. In fact, the contrast of the black fabric and the signature pinkness of my skin immediately brings to mind the image of a burnt sausage, and I must be starting to smell like one too. I reach into my bag and then spritz myself with something unpronounceable, a word conjured up by marketeers.
Dyer flaps her hand, diluting the sickly-sweet scent. ‘Jesus, I know Steele said to tidy yourself up, but I hope that isn’t for Jacob Pope’s benefit.’
‘Christ, no,’ I say, mortified. ‘I’m just trying to get through it. It’s my boyfriend, you see. He travels a lot for work and spends half his life in Duty Free, buying me perfume I don’t need.’
‘Tough life you’ve got there. Does he have an older brother, by any chance?’
I glance at her left hand, at the narrow gold wedding band. ‘He does actually, but he’s in Canada.’
‘Even better. I like Canadians. They’re laid-back, uncomplicated.’
‘You’re out of luck. He’s Irish, not Canadian.’
‘That’ll do. The Irish are the same.’
They are, and Aiden’s a shining example. Although who knows if his brother is? His sister certainly lacked the ‘uncomplicated’ gene.
As does Jacob Pope. Keen to show off my rush-job research, two-thirds of it gleaned in the queue at H&M, I say, ‘He’s some work, eh? Killing his girlfriend because she neglected to mention she’s a cousin of a “business” rival. That’s callous.’
And childish, to be flippant. A devastating version of playing dens with your mates. ‘You’re our friend, not their friend. Bang bang, you’re dead.’
‘Ah, but have you seen him?’ Dyer’s tone is playful, her face pure disgust. ‘Gorgeous cancels out callous, apparently. He can’t keep up with all the marriage proposals and naked selfies he gets sent, so they say.’
I have no words. There’s nothing that explains that level of lunacy – or loneliness, if you’re being charitable. A minute passes – maybe two car lengths, at best – before I can think of anything to fill the silence. Maybe I do miss Parnell after all. The inane chat. The incessant whistling.
‘Do you honestly think he’ll be able to tell us anything?’ I say eventually. ‘From what I read, Pope isn’t shy. If Masters had bragged about where Holly was buried, Pope would have said after he murdered him, surely? I mean, he practically wanted a medal for the murder. If he helped us find Holly’s body, he’d have been angling for a knighthood.’
‘Parnell thinks he deserves a medal,’ she says, tip-tapping the steering wheel, eyes locked on the car in front, on its tasteful bumper sticker – If you’re gonna ride my arse at least pull my hair.
I shake my head quickly. ‘No, he doesn’t. He was seeing how you’d react. He likes to know who he’s working with.’
‘Well, he should have a rough idea. We were part of the same unit back in, God . . . 2009, I think.’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘Although, I suppose I was on Organised Crime, Parnell was on street gangs. Completely different focus. We only knew each other to say hi.’
And we’re off again, inching a few metres closer to Belmarsh. It’d be quicker to fly to Brazil.
‘But you and Steele go way back?’
Horns blare in the distance. Something going on up ahead. Probably some daydreamer taking more than half a second to get their head into gear as the lights turn green. A crime in this city. A breach of the London code.
‘Well, that’s the thing, we never worked together either. We just kind of know each other because we both worked for Olly Cairns, both made big strides under him. The top brass used to call us his “alumni”. Olly joked we weren’t Charlie’s Angels, we were Oliver’s Army.’
The thought fascinates me. The idea of Steele as a work-in-progress. In my mind, she’s always been the finished article, the fully formed Cop Diva, careering out of Police Training College with a warrant in one hand and a suspect’s testicles in the other.
‘It was Olly who started the Cardigan Kate thing.’ Dyer throws a look over, checking I know the reference, which I do. ‘He’s such a wind-up merchant. It’s not like she even wore them that often – she’s always been a stylish one, Kate – but you know how these things start. Once he said it, it stuck.’
‘We call her Kate Kardashian now. The glossy hair. The designer shoes.’
‘You’re a braver woman than me.’ So speaks the woman giving the finger to a tanker driver. ‘I bet you don’t say it to her face.’
‘I don’t, ’cos I’m scared I’ll catch her in a bad mood. Some of the others do, though. She thinks it’s hilarious.’
Dyer smirks. ‘Isn’t HRT a wonderful thing?’
I laugh, knowing it’s something Steele would say herself, but there it is again, that prickly undertone. One snidey little quip dressed up as a joke that says, ‘I’m younger than her, more game for a laugh.’
I’m better?
She’d have a bloody hard job.
‘Do you want some advice, Cat?’
Not really, but when you’re in a confined space with someone three ranks higher, there’s only one career-savvy response. ‘Of course, ma’am.’
She nods, happy I’ve played along. ‘OK, well, it’s like I always used to say to my boys when they were scared of a spider – “Remember, it’s more scared of you than you are of it.” ’ I try not to look baffled. ‘Steele,’ she explains, ‘she thinks very highly of you. She told me about a couple of your cases, said you’ve got great potential.’ She glances in the rear-view mirror, as if seeking permission from her own reflection to get to the real point. ‘Maybe she’s a bit scared of that potential, though. Scared you’ll surpass her, that you won’t always think of her as near-divine.’ I’m still not sure where this is headed so I smile inanely. Was there advice in there? ‘Don’t be intimidated by her is all I’m saying. Respect her, but don’t be held back by thinking you’re less.’