False Tongues (12 page)

He was only fifteen, for God's sake, Neville reminded himself. Fifteen.

But he was dead, and that fact was unmistakable. Someone had killed him. For whatever reason, someone had stabbed him to death.

‘I think,' he said, ‘that you need to tell me how to get in touch with this Lexie Renton.'

***

Lilith stared helplessly at the departing parents. Where had she gone wrong? She'd so very nearly been there. She had connected with the mother—she knew that she had; the connection had been real. And then she'd lost it. Blown it. And that officious Family Liaison Officer…

They were gone, taking their names—and probably Lilith's future career—with them.

She turned to Ray, the helpful mortuary attendant. He was her only hope.

‘Is there any way you can check the paperwork and give me those people's names?' she asked, with her most beguiling smile.

Ray shook his head, and her heart sank. That was it, then. She was stumped. Screwed, to put it bluntly.

‘I don't need to check the paperwork,' he said. ‘That's Miz Frost. And Dr Frost, her husband.'

‘Frost? You know them?'

He nodded. ‘They work here. At the hospital.'

‘Both of them?' This was too good to be true.

‘That's right,' Ray confirmed. ‘In A and E. Miz Frost is a surgeon, and Dr Frost—I think he's an anaesthetist.'

Their first names would be a matter of public record, easy to find on the hospital's website, even if Ray's knowledge didn't stretch to that. And their son was called Sebastian. Sebastian Frost. She had a name.

She had a story.

‘Thanks, Ray.' Once again she produced her most brilliant smile; this time it came naturally. ‘Thank you so much.'

***

Interlude: a mobile phone call

Hugo: ‘Hey.'

Tom: ‘Hey.'

Hugo: ‘Seb. He's—'

Tom: ‘Yeah. I know. I've had a cop here.'

Hugo: ‘Me, too.'

Tom: ‘It totally sucks.'

Hugo: ‘Poor Seb.'

Tom: ‘You didn't tell them, did you? About—'

Hugo: ‘Of course not, dickhead. Do you think I'm mental or something?'

Tom: ‘I just—'

Hugo: ‘
You
didn't tell them, did you?'

Tom: ‘No. But he's dead, Hugo. Don't you think—?'

Hugo: ‘My point exactly. He's dead. Nothing we say is going to bring him back. We've got to think of ourselves now.'

Tom: ‘Yeah, I guess you're right.'

Hugo: ‘You know that I am. You know what would happen if it all came out.'

Tom: ‘Yeah, my parents would kill me, for a start.'

Hugo: ‘And that would just be the beginning. We would be so totally screwed. So just keep your mouth shut.'

Tom: ‘Yeah, okay.'

Hugo: ‘I'm going to ring Olly now. See you.'

Tom: ‘Yeah, see you.'

Chapter Seven

They may have had a late start, Margaret reflected, but the first session had been a great success. She was particularly pleased with the facilitating style of Canon Kingsley, who had achieved more in a morning than some people could have done in a whole week. It had been a gamble to invite someone with whom she'd had no personal experience. She'd followed her instincts, though, and trusted Keith Moody's recommendation. It had clearly paid off.

After the communal—and satisfyingly convivial—lunch in the dining hall, before the next session was due to begin, she sought out Dr Moody to thank him. She caught up with him in the courtyard, where he was sitting on a bench, evidently enjoying the sunshine.

‘No one is going to want to be indoors this afternoon.' He turned toward her as she approached. ‘I suspect we may lose a few people to the temptations of the river and the other attractions of Cambridge.'

‘Mmm.' She sat down beside him and lifted her face to the sun. ‘Maybe we should just acknowledge defeat and give them the afternoon off.'

‘We could always have an informal session in the bar this evening instead,' he suggested.

Margaret thought about it for a moment. ‘If John Kingsley doesn't mind, I think it's worth considering.'

‘I'm sure he wouldn't mind. He had a difficult journey, I understand, and he's not as young as he used to be.'

‘And the deacons would be delighted.'

He smiled. ‘As I said, I suspect more than a few of them would skive off anyway. And I could probably tell you which ones.'

‘I don't doubt it.' Margaret closed her eyes; the sun was making her feel sleepy already. Napping in the afternoon was not—had never been—her style, but after her night of interrupted sleep, the thought was very tempting. Reminding herself of why she had come looking for Keith Moody in the first place, she forced herself to open her eyes and look at him. ‘Actually, Dr Moody, I wanted to thank you for suggesting Canon Kingsley. He was brilliant this morning.'

‘Please,' he said. ‘Call me Keith. Or Mad Phil, if you'd prefer,' he added with a grin.

Margaret laughed. ‘All right, then. Keith.'

‘And I'm delighted that it's working out with John Kingsley. I knew he'd be good.'

‘He's a lovely man,' she said with complete sincerity. ‘I'm looking forward to getting to know him this week.'

Keith Moody took his spectacles off and polished them with his handkerchief. ‘Could I suggest something?' he said. ‘If you're truly considering cancelling the session, I'd really like it if you and John would come and have tea with me this afternoon. In my garden. It would give you a chance to get to know
both
of us a bit better.'

‘What a good idea.' She had, Margaret recalled, only just been thinking about how little she knew Keith Moody, and this would be an excellent opportunity to remedy that situation. Reluctantly she stood up. ‘I suppose it's time for me to go and deliver the good news. We're all having an afternoon off.'

***

When he'd finished with Hugo Summerville, Neville tried to ring Cowley to compare notes and plan their next interviews. Annoyingly, Cowley's phone went directly to voice mail, so he left a message to tell him to pay a call on Olly Blount.

He would tackle Lexie Renton himself. Sexy Lexie. He certainly couldn't trust Cowley with someone with a nickname like that. Not so long ago he would barely have trusted himself, but he was a respectable married man now…

First, though, food. Neville realised, as he got in the car, that he was ravenous. He hadn't eaten all day. It had been an early start, and he had learned a long time ago that it was never a good idea to eat before a postmortem. After that, things had happened non-stop; food had been the last thing on his mind. Now his stomach rumbled, reminding him that it had been grossly neglected.

Once upon a time, these circumstances would have called for a quick pub lunch. A sarny, a pint, a fag. But things had changed. He'd been off the fags for a few years, and pubs were now non-smoking anyway. The pint wouldn't be a good idea just before an interview. And most of the pubs in this part of London had gone so upmarket—gastro-pubs, they called themselves—that a quick lunch was out of the question.

The Paddington area was notoriously bad for parking, but another thing that Neville had discovered years ago was that there were definite advantages to driving a police car. He pulled up on a double yellow in front of a grimy-looking kebab shop, went in, stood at the counter, and ordered a large doner kebab with extra chilli sauce. He'd patronised this place before, more than once. It might not boast the most elegant decor, but the food was very much to his taste, and they provided a counter in front of the window where he could perch on a high stool and keep an eye on the car while he wolfed down the greasy concoction. And there were plenty of cheap paper napkins to wipe his hands afterwards. Doner kebabs were something best kept out of police cars, Neville felt. Their pungent smell lingered on like stale fag smoke, and that was assuming you didn't dribble chilli sauce on the upholstery as a lasting reminder of a culinary indiscretion.

Suitably revived, he chucked his detritus in the bin by the door, lifted a hand in a gesture of farewell to the proprietor, and retrieved his car.

Hugo had been vague about where Neville might find Lexie Renton. ‘She lives in a flat. Somewhere round here,' was the best he'd been able to provide.

Fortunately Renton wasn't a very common name. A quick phone call to an obliging colleague with access to a telephone directory yielded a promising result: an S M Renton at an address just off the Edgware Road.

The block of flats may have been close geographically to the genteel Georgian squares of Bayswater, but architecturally it might as well have been on a different planet. Evidently a bomb had been dropped on the spot—a German aiming for Paddington Station, no doubt, maybe after a glass or two of schnapps—and at some point after the war it had been deemed a good idea to fill in the space.

They shouldn't have bothered, Neville decided as he regarded the ugly, angular building, already aging badly. His own flat was nothing to write home about, but this one was even worse.

S M Renton's flat was on the second floor, and there was no lift. There also wasn't an exterior bell to check whether anyone was at home, so Neville puffed his way up two flights of stairs, hoping that after all this he was in the right place.

The door was opened by a young girl who looked about ten, though Neville was no reliable judge of children's ages. ‘Does a Lexie Renton live here?' he asked.

The girl nodded. ‘Lexie!' she yelled over her shoulder. ‘It's for you. A man.'

***

After lunch, which she'd eaten with Tamsin, Nicky and Val, Callie excused herself to make a quick phone call to Marco. Their previous conversation had been cut frustratingly short, so she wanted to make sure that all was well in London. She sat on her favourite bench under the cherry tree in the courtyard and rang his mobile.

‘
Cara Mia
,' he said. Her heart gave a thump at the sound of his voice. ‘I'm afraid I can't really talk. I'm on a new assignment.'

‘On a Bank Holiday? I thought you weren't working today.'

‘I wasn't supposed to be. But…things happen. A boy's been killed.'

She caught her breath. ‘Oh, no. And you're with his family.'

‘That's right.' Marco gave a sigh. ‘Maybe this sounds silly,
Cara Mia
, but could you pray for them? Nothing will bring their son back, but…'

‘It doesn't sound silly at all. And of course I will. Tell me their names.'

‘They're called Miranda and Richard Frost, and their son was Sebastian.'

‘I'll pray for them,' she promised. ‘And so will other people. My friends.'

‘I wish you were here,' Marco said quietly.

‘So do I.'

And she did, Callie realised. Even here, in one of her favourite spots on earth, she would rather have been with Marco.

‘I'd better go. I'll try to ring you tonight,
Cara Mia
.
Ti amo
,' he added.

Callie smiled; her grasp of Italian was minimal, but that was one phrase she understood. ‘Love you, too.'

She put the phone in her pocket and sat for a moment, closing her eyes and lifting her face to the sun, saying a silent prayer for the Frost family.

‘There you are,' called Tamsin. ‘We've been looking for you!'

Callie opened her eyes. Tamsin and Nicky were coming up the path toward her. ‘Have you heard?' Tamsin said, grinning. ‘We're free this afternoon! The weather is so nice that they've given us the afternoon off.'

‘So we were wondering what to do,' Nicky added. ‘I think we should hire a punt.'

‘And I think we should go shopping,' Tamsin stated.

Nicky pulled a face. ‘So we need you to cast the deciding vote. What's it to be?'

A punt on the river—that would be bliss. Just like old times. ‘Punt,' Callie said without hesitation.

‘That's settled, then.' Nicky turned to Tamsin with a smug smile. ‘See, I told you that she'd make the right decision. She's a sensible woman.'

‘A traitor to womankind,' pronounced Tamsin, but she was smiling fondly at Nicky as she said it.

‘Did I hear the word “punt”?'

They all turned as Adam Masters sauntered up from behind them.

‘Sounds like a great idea,' he said. ‘You don't mind if I join you, do you? It will be just like old times.'

***

‘Lexie Renton?'

Neville couldn't help staring: she was a reasonably pretty girl with shiny pale hair, but it was her body that was spectacular. She did nothing to conceal it, either; she was wearing a short black tank top with spaghetti straps, showing off hot pink bra straps on her shoulders and a bellybutton stud on her bare midriff, above the briefest of mini skirts. She was no more than fifteen, Neville reminded himself.

‘I'm Lexie,' the girl confirmed, returning his stare challengingly. ‘And who are
you
?'

‘Detective Inspector Stewart.' He produced his warrant card.

Usually a mere flash of the card was all that was required, but Lexie Renton was evidently of a more suspicious turn of mind than most; she took the card from him and examined it, then handed it back with a nod. ‘Okay,' she said, then turned to the younger girl, who was watching with interest. ‘Piss off,' she ordered.

The girl complied, with a glare.

‘How can I help you?' Lexie asked, leaning against the door.

Neville decided he should play it safe, just in case. ‘Are your parents at home?'

‘Mum's working today,' she said. ‘And Dad doesn't live with us.'

‘Is there a place where we could talk for a few minutes, Miss Renton? In private?'

‘Miss Renton.' She snorted. ‘Call me Lexie.' Without waiting for a reply, she turned and walked down a corridor. Neville followed, his eyes fixed on the butterfly tattoo in the small of her back.

Fifteen. Good God.

When he was fifteen, his chief delight had been in a girl called Norah Kelly. He hadn't thought of her for years, but he thought of her now. A tumble of red curls, and eyes as blue as the sky. Behind the bike shed, she had unbuttoned her white cotton blouse and allowed him to look. Two perfect pink rosebuds. God. Neville's mouth went dry, remembering.

Even now, he found white blouses highly erotic. That was probably why he'd been so attracted to Triona, the first time he met her, in her prim solicitor's suit and a crisp white shirt.

Norah Kelly. Those knowing blue eyes, promising so much. God, how she could kiss. And her mam would have killed her if she'd known the things that girl could do with her hands…

It hadn't gone much farther than that, of course. Not in that time and place. They were too frightened of the consequences. A baby would have been catastrophic, would have brought disgrace on both families and condemnation from the Church, in the terrifyingly authoritarian person of Father Flynn. Even Neville, inflamed with adolescent lust as he'd been, had known it wasn't worth the risk.

Where was Norah Kelly now? Probably married to some dim farmer, mother of half a dozen brats, her red hair faded to greying ginger. Pushing forty, just like he was. She might even have grandchildren.

Neville swallowed hard as Lexie pushed open a door and led him into her bedroom.

It was a small room, furnished with a single bed and a desk. The walls, painted a pale purple, were decorated with posters and pictures of boy bands and other pop stars, mostly unrecognised by Neville. A few books were piled on the desk, next to a shiny laptop computer of a type which would have sent Sid Cowley into raptures of techno-lust.

Lexie Renton sat on the bed and looked at him, her head to one side, as he turned the desk chair round to face her and took a seat. This was going to be tricky, he realised, pulling out his notebook. Probably in more ways than one. He couldn't read her expression; she was bound to be apprehensive, if she wasn't expecting this visit and didn't know what it was about, yet there was no sign of that in her demeanour.

‘Sebastian Frost,' Neville began. ‘I understand he's your boyfriend?'

She smiled, more to herself than at him. ‘Is that what Seb told you?'

The girl was wrong-footing him already. ‘It's what I've been led to believe,' he said carefully.

Lexie nodded. ‘Okay, then. We'll go with that. He's my boyfriend.'

‘You met him…where?'

‘We're at the same school,' she said, adding, ‘It's a posh school. My dad pays the fees. Guilt, for dumping Mum and leaving us.'

That figured, Neville thought. From what he'd seen of their poky flat, the Rentons wouldn't be moving in the same circles as the Frosts or the Summervilles. ‘And you and Sebastian…have been intimate?' he said with uncharacteristic delicacy.