False Tongues (15 page)

There was a cat curled up on another of the chairs, she realised. A plump tabby, sound asleep in the sun.

Without thinking, Margaret leaned over and stroked the cat. It began purring: a deep, satisfied rumble. After a moment it opened one very green eye, stared at her, and jumped down from its chair. It stretched, forward and back, yawned hugely, then jumped up on her lap and curled once again into a ball.

Keith Moody and John Kingsley came through the french doors. ‘Sorry I can't get up,' Margaret said, indicating her burden.

‘Oh!' Keith raised his eyebrows. ‘You should feel very honoured, Principal. Evie is quite particular about laps, and has paid you a great compliment. But feel free to push her off if she's bothering you.'

‘Not at all. She's lovely.' Margaret rubbed behind the cat's ears and was rewarded with another burst of purrs. ‘She's called Evie, then?'

‘Evie, short for Evensong.' He gestured John Kingsley into the chair recently vacated by the cat. ‘Because that's when she adopted me. One afternoon I came home from Evensong and found her here. Inside the house, curled up on the sofa, as if she owned the place. I'd left a window cracked open and that was all the encouragement she needed. She's been here ever since. Ruling the roost, I don't have to tell you.'

‘My daughter has a cat,' Canon Kingsley contributed. ‘She keeps telling me that I should get one, to keep me company. I think she worries about me, living on my own. But I'm used to it.'

Maybe
she
should get a cat, Margaret told herself. It would certainly make her house feel less empty. She didn't think she would
ever
become accustomed to living on her own.

‘And I'm afraid I would neglect it. Forget to feed it, or something. I'm a bit like that,' John Kingsley admitted. ‘Sometimes I don't even remember to feed myself.'

‘There's no danger of neglecting Evie.' Keith Moody laughed. ‘She's very good at letting me know when she's hungry. And speaking of food…'

He disappeared for a few minutes, then came back with a tray of plates, tea things, and cutlery.

‘Can I help you?' Margaret offered guiltily.

‘Not at all. Everything is organised. And you're a guest,' he added. ‘With a cat on your lap.'

‘So I am.'

On his next trip he brought out a cake on a platter, iced extravagantly with chocolate. ‘Chocolate cake,' he announced.

It looked wonderful. And homemade—not just any old shop-bought cake. ‘Oh! I love chocolate,' confessed Margaret. ‘It's my absolute favourite.'

‘Yes, I know.'

There was something in his voice…something that made her turn her attention from the cake and look at him more closely. The tiniest suspicion wriggled into her mind.

Keith Moody met her eyes, holding her surprised gaze without looking away. He raised both eyebrows for a second…and then he winked.

***

It was there, on Paddington Green, as Lilith had guessed it would be. The shrine.

The crime scene tape was still in place, cordoning off an area of the green. But the shrine had appeared against the railings on the perimeter. Bunches of flowers, most wrapped in cellophane. Cards, notes.

And they were there, as well. Sebastian Frost's friends, sitting round on the grass, talking quietly amongst themselves in small groups or withdrawn into their own thoughts and memories. A dozen or so young teenagers, mostly boys and a few girls, dressed in what Lilith recognised as the latest teen fashions.

She approached cautiously, afraid of scaring them off. But those who could be bothered to turn their heads or open their eyes looked at her incuriously; the others ignored her.

Lilith wished she'd thought to bring some flowers herself. The fact that she hadn't brought any to add to the shrine didn't stop her from crouching down beside the floral tributes and reading the messages.

‘Seb - I won't forget you.'

‘Good mate. You'll be missed.'

‘I can't believe your gone, Seb. This sucks.' Lilith grimaced and mentally corrected the grammar.

They went on in that vein, more or less grammatical but scarcely articulate, let alone poetic.

Lilith left the messages and studied the gathered teenagers for a likely target. She chose one who was sitting on his own, leaning against the trunk of a tree with his eyes closed. Easing herself down beside him, she wished she'd been wearing something more appropriate for sitting on the ground than her tight skirt. It wasn't often that Lilith got caught out wearing the wrong clothes—she prided herself in dressing for the occasion—but she hadn't anticipated this venue when she'd chosen her wardrobe for the day. Her outfit was suitable for confronting her editor, not for this; she made the best of it by tucking her legs to the side, knees demurely together.

‘Hi, I'm Lilith,' she said to the boy, her voice as quiet as she could make it and still be heard. ‘Are you one of Seb's friends?'

He opened his eyes, narrowing them in her direction. They were a bit red, with some evidence of tears. ‘We were mates, yeah.'

‘And you are…?'

‘Olly.'

‘Nice to meet you, Olly.' She didn't offer her hand, but he nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Do you mind talking about Seb?'

‘S'pose not.'

He was not the most prepossessing of boys, being a bit spotty and rather short, though his dark hair had been styled into fashionable spikes. Lilith hoped he would make up for in articulateness what he lacked in looks.

‘How did you hear about Seb's death?' Lilith asked, putting on an expression of sympathy and concern. She wished she could employ a tape recorder, or at the very least a notebook, but sensed it would scare him off. She would just have to rely on her excellent memory.

Olly looked at her as if she'd just asked the stupidest question possible, rolling his eyes. ‘Duh. One of my mates texted me. Stuff like that gets round pretty fast. It was on Facebook like hours ago.'

Facebook! She hadn't even thought of checking there. ‘There's a memorial page, then?'

‘Yeah, of course.' He rolled his eyes again.

Lilith tried to come up with a question which would demonstrate that she wasn't as thick and out-of-touch as he seemed to think she was. She settled for the simplest of all: an open invitation. ‘Tell me about Seb.'

The boy sighed as he considered the matter; he pulled up a blade of grass and shredded it, then began tentatively. ‘Seb is…was…special. You know? Seb did things that other kids only thought about. Or didn't even think about, till Seb did them. Then everyone else did them too.'

A leader. That's what this boy was trying to say, in his tortuous way. Sebastian Frost had possessed leadership qualities. ‘Can you give me an example?' she urged.

Olly picked at a spot on his chin and took his time to answer. ‘I can't really think of anything,' he said at last, then corrected himself. ‘Well, there was this sort of game that Seb invented. This was a long time ago, like. We all had names of
Star Wars
characters. You know?' He shredded another blade of grass and added apologetically, ‘It all sounds kind of stupid now. Sorry.'

Lilith was beginning to wonder whether she might have better luck with one of Sebastian's other friends when her attention was drawn to a new figure on the scene. The man walked slowly toward the makeshift shrine, his head bent as if he hadn't the strength to hold it up. A tall, lanky man with curly brown hair, flecked with grey. He stopped in front of the shrine and squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his lips together.

Lilith recognised him immediately, from the mortuary. Dr Frost. Sebastian's father.

It had been a good day for her: a dollop or two of luck, added to solid journalistic instincts and hard work. This, though, was the icing on the cake. She'd hit paydirt.

***

With the weather so delightful, Callie found her room oppressive and the courtyard enticing. She needed to make a couple of phone calls and decided to take a chance on doing it from her favourite bench, hoping she could remain undiscovered and undisturbed while she did so.

Peter was the first, mainly to check up on Bella. ‘She's fine,' he said blithely. ‘We had a long walk this afternoon.'

For a change he didn't seem inclined to engage in idle chit-chat, which suited Callie just fine. She promised to ring tomorrow and ended the call.

If Peter had started probing—or worse, teasing her—about Adam, she didn't think she could have borne it. Likewise, she really wasn't ready to talk to Marco just yet, after what had happened. She'd had to tell Marco that Adam was there, but that was as much as she wanted to say to him on that subject. By unspoken mutual consent, she and Marco didn't talk about Adam; they both preferred it that way. Perhaps one day, when they were married and thoroughly secure in their relationship, they would be able to discuss her former fiancé, but not yet.

Her friend Frances Cherry was the person she really wanted to talk to. Frances would understand why Callie was upset; she wouldn't have to make excuses or try to explain.

Frances, though, wasn't answering her phone; Callie's call went straight to voice-mail. She hung up without leaving a message. How could she condense into thirty seconds—a few sentences—the horror of the afternoon she had just endured?

Yet she desperately needed to talk about it, to try to make some sense of the way she was feeling. Maybe she could find Tamsin and have a private chat.

‘Hello,' said a voice close by, and Callie recognised Canon Kingsley as he approached along the path.

‘Oh, hello.' She wasn't at all sure what prompted her next words. ‘Do you have a minute, Canon? To talk?'

‘Yes, of course.' He sat down beside her on the bench. ‘I don't think we've been properly introduced.'

‘I'm Callie Anson. One of the deacons,' she added unnecessarily.

He didn't press her, and he didn't try to fill the initial silence with small talk. He just sat and waited while Callie tried to think how to begin. Maybe it was a mistake, she told herself. Why should she think it was a good idea to burden a total stranger with this? But there was just something about this man, something that made her certain she could trust him.

‘When I was studying here, the last few years, I was involved with someone,' she started tentatively.

Then it all came out, in a flood of words. Adam, the growing relationship, the commitment, the physical intimacy which had seemed so natural and right at the time. The plans they'd made for the future, and the way it had ended. Adam's obtuseness as he'd told her that he'd met someone wonderful, and hoped she and Pippa would be good friends. The pain she'd suffered in the months after that. Then Marco, and the difference he had made in her life. The healing, the hope, the love.

And now this week. Today. This afternoon. Adam again, bringing with him the reminder of things she'd tried so hard to forget.

Canon Kingsley was the perfect listener: attentive, encouraging her with his body language as she told the story, never interrupting her. Not judging.

‘I don't know why I'm letting it get to me so much,' she finished. ‘It's over. In the past. I've moved on, just like he has. Why am I allowing this to upset me?'

He seemed to weigh his reply carefully, treating her question as more than a rhetorical one. ‘You don't love him any longer,' he said, a statement rather than a question.

‘No. Absolutely not.' Callie wasn't just saying it; she knew it was true. ‘In fact, being with him this afternoon made me wonder what I'd ever seen in him.'

‘But he clearly stirs up very strong emotions in you. Not love—something else, then.'

‘Yeees…'

‘Anger,' said John Kingsley. ‘Adam makes you very angry, doesn't he?'

Callie didn't consider herself an angry person. But Canon Kingsley was right. He was absolutely right. It hit her like a blow to the solar plexis. ‘Yes,' she admitted. ‘Yes, he does.'

‘Then the next thing you need to ask yourself—'

‘Callie!' Tamsin's voice cut across his words from several feet away. ‘I've just been up to your room, looking for you. I figured I'd find you here. We're going to be late for dinner!'

‘I'm sorry,' Callie said quickly to Canon Kingsley, before Tamsin reached them. ‘I have to go. But thank you so much for listening.' Her regret, and her gratitude, were real.

He smiled. ‘We can continue this conversation another day, if you like.'

‘If you really mean it…'

‘Oh, I do,' he said.

***

Lilith had thought for a moment that he wouldn't talk to her—Richard Frost. That he would blow her off, tell her to go away and leave him alone.

But it hadn't been like that. Not at all.

It was almost as if he'd come looking for her, hoping she would be there. He was aching to talk, desperate for it.

‘It's always about the mother,' he said to her. ‘Everyone focuses on her. Like she's the only one who's grieving. Yes, it's hell for Miranda. Of course it is. But what about
me
? He was my son too. I've lost him as well. Why do I have to be strong for Miranda, when I've lost my son?'

They had connected. It had been palpable, that connection—almost sexual in its intensity. Richard Frost had talked, and she had listened. He had bared his soul to her, shared his pain and his frustration. He'd told her the things he couldn't tell his wife. Miranda, who was hurting so much that she didn't want to know about his pain. Things he couldn't tell the Family Liaison Officer, who after all was just a policeman being paid to do a job. But he had told
her,
Lilith Noone.

And he had talked about his son. About Sebastian, that gifted boy with so much to offer, his whole life in front of him. But now there was no future for Sebastian; his life was behind him. All of that promise, cut short. Sebastian Frost might have discovered the cure for cancer one day; he might have scored the winning goal at the World Cup in a dozen or so years; he might have been prime minister. Now they would never know what he could have achieved. It was a vast tragedy, a loss for the world, a story without an ending.