False Tongues (20 page)

It
was
unfair. Callie had realised a long time ago that Tamsin was an extremely intelligent woman, probably the brightest in their little group of friends. She deserved to be taken seriously.

And she deserved a man who would see past the surface and value her for the incredible person she was. But that probably wasn't going to happen, reflected Callie. Not as long as Tamsin was hung up on Nicky. Even though she'd never admit it, even to Callie, Tamsin's heart had a ‘reserved' sign on it. And that meant she sent out the wrong signals to men—subconscious messages that she was unavailable. Tamsin wanted a man, but not just any man. She wanted Nicky.

‘We're nearly finished,' Tamsin said, and pointed at the stacks of clean crockery on the table. ‘I suppose we ought to put them away before we go. But I need to pop to the loo.'

‘You go ahead. I'll finish up here.' Callie washed the last few teaspoons, put them in the drainer, emptied the sink and wiped it down, then opened cupboard doors till she found the proper places for the plates and cereal bowls.

‘Oh. My. God.'

Tamsin wasn't shouting, but now that the running water in the sink was off, her voice echoed loud and clear down the stairs and in the kitchen.

‘What is it?' Callie, alarmed, raced up the stairs to the bathroom door. ‘Tamsin, are you all right?'

The door flew open. Tamsin stared at her, eyes wide and mouth in an O.

Had she hurt herself somehow? Was she bleeding? ‘Are you all right?' Callie repeated.

Tamsin took a step back and pointed at an open drawer, then finally regained the power of speech. ‘Look,' she said. ‘I finished off the loo roll, so I was looking for a spare. I opened this drawer.'

Callie leaned over and peered into the drawer. It held an electric hair straightener with a long cord, a jumble of make-up, and at the bottom a packet of Tampax.

‘Oh, God, Callie,' Tamsin breathed. ‘She was right. That Hanna woman was right about Mad Phil. He's having it off with an undergraduate!'

***

Lilith peered through the glass which surrounded the McDonald's outlet on the far side of Paddington Station. It wasn't lunch time yet, but that didn't prevent most of the people within from chowing down on burgers, she observed with some distaste.

Olly, she saw, had arrived and was sitting by himself at one of the plastic tables, intent on his phone. She watched him for a moment: he was apparently playing some fast-paced game, punching the little screen vigorously with his finger, oblivious to his surroundings.

She went in, joined the queue, and ordered a Big Mac meal for Olly and a coffee for herself. Then she carried the red plastic tray to the table and stood beside Olly, waiting for him to finish his game and notice her.

‘Oh, hi,' he grunted eventually, putting the phone down.

Lilith slid the tray onto the table and sat down across from him. Olly reached for the sandwich carton with one hand and fed a fistful of fries into his mouth with the other.

She sipped at her coffee, which was surprisingly good—though ridiculously emblazoned with a message warning her that the coffee might be hot—and watched him eat. He applied himself to the task with the single-minded concentration of a starving man—or a teenaged boy, not looking at her. One would think, she reflected, that he hadn't eaten for weeks.

The food consumed, he guzzled down about half of the large Coke, then belched and put the cup down on the table in front of him. He grabbed a straw from the tray and stuck it into the Coke, taking one more sip from it before finally raising his eyes to Lilith.

‘Thanks,' he mumbled.

‘My pleasure.' Lilith leaned back in the moulded plastic chair and smiled across the table at him.

‘You wanted me to talk about Seb?' Olly frowned, as if dimly grasping the fact that he was now under obligation to her. ‘Like I told you before, he was a good bloke. A good mate.'

Now, she decided, was the time to strike. ‘I believe what you're telling me, Olly. But someone's told me something a bit disturbing about your friend Seb. Someone has said that he was a bully.'

Olly's eyes widened; for the first time he made real eye contact with her, before he quickly looked down at the table. ‘Who told you that?'

‘I'm sure you know I have to keep my sources…secret,' she said carefully. ‘And anything you tell me, Olly, will be just between the two of us. If that's the way you want it.'

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. ‘It wasn't like that,' he said, so quietly that Lilith had to lean forward to catch his words. ‘Not really. It was just a bit of fun.' Olly reached his hand out and fingered his phone.

Chapter Twelve

The morning session had been particularly good, in Margaret's estimation. She continued to be very impressed with John Kingsley as a facilitator: he seemed possessed of extraordinary sensitivity and empathy, enabling him to draw out issues from the participants that otherwise would have remained buried and unaddressed.

After the fact, Margaret felt a bit guilty that she hadn't offered Canon Kingsley accommodation at the Principal's Lodge, rather than assigning him to one of the college's guest rooms. Apart from anything else, she had cheated herself of the opportunity to get to know that exceptional man better. By the end of lunch she had resolved to do something about it. If it was too late to move him—and to suggest that would perhaps point up her initial failure—she could at least invite him for a meal. A meal she would cook herself.

It had been quite a long time since Margaret had cooked a proper meal. Since her arrival at the College, it had been much easier for her to take her meals in the dining hall than to assume the responsibility of cooking for one person. The standard of the college food was more than acceptable, and it seemed a good thing to let herself be seen at mealtimes, providing opportunities for informal interactions with staff and students. If she needed privacy, or didn't feel up to communal dining, the kitchen staff were always happy to send a tray to her office or her living quarters.

Once upon a time, in what seemed to her a previous life, she had quite enjoyed cooking, and had been pretty adept at it; Alexander had never complained, nor had Hal. Now, though, she was so out of practice that the prospect was more than a bit daunting. Not allowing herself to think about that, she took her lunch tray to the clean-up station and slotted it into the rack, then went to where John Kingsley was lunching, with former students on either side of him and Keith Moody across the table.

She forced herself not to make eye contact with Keith straightaway, addressing herself to Canon Kingsley. ‘Canon, I was wondering whether you might be free to have supper with me tonight at the Principal's Lodge,' she said, smiling. ‘It would give us a chance for a good chat.'

He returned her smile. ‘That's very kind,' he said. ‘I'd be delighted, if it's not too much trouble for you.'

‘I'm a bit rusty at cooking,' Margaret admitted, ‘but I'm going to have a go. Is there anything you don't eat?'

The canon gave a dry laugh. ‘I'm a clergyman. I'll eat anything.'

She felt a tug on her sleeve, and looked down at Keith Moody, smiling involuntarily at his cheeky grin. ‘Please, Ma'am,' he said. ‘Am I invited too? I'm very well behaved, and I'll eat anything as well.'

‘Yes, Dr Moody,' Margaret said formally, conscious of the openly eavesdropping deacons. She attempted to rearrange her expression to something more befitting her position, but was afraid she was less than successful; the smile refused to be suppressed. ‘You're invited. I'll see you both at seven.'

***

The interview with Tom Gresham had been as big a waste of time as Neville had feared. As big a waste of time as talking to Hugo Summerville. Tom had professed himself baffled about any suggestion of bullying, and no line of questioning had produced anything but a flat denial, a blank stare.

Now Neville was working against the clock, sitting at his computer and trying to draft his statement for the inquest. And Sid Cowley wasn't making it easy, as he paced round Neville's desk and interrupted his train of thought.

‘What about the girlfriend?' Cowley suggested. ‘That Lexie. We ought to talk to her, for definite. She'd know what her boyfriend was up to. When he wasn't shagging her, that is.'

‘And you think she'd tell us? Come on, Sid. None of these kids are giving up a thing. They're all in on it together, and none of them is going to crack.'

‘I could try, Guv. Let me have a go at her.'

That was all he needed, Neville told himself. He was more determined than ever that Cowley would never come face-to-face with Sexy Lexie. He sighed. ‘No way. Just forget it, Sid.'

‘But—'

‘We'll think about it after the inquest,' he stated firmly, and glanced at his watch. The time was slipping away; he was going to be every bit as unprepared as he'd been for the news conference.

He needed Sid out of his hair, and now. ‘Could you go and get me a cup of coffee?' he asked in desperation. ‘A proper cup of coffee, I mean. Not out of the machine. Not from the canteen. I really fancy a Starbucks.'

Cowley stared at him in amazement. ‘Starbucks? But that's on the Edgware Road! It'll take me ten minutes to get there, at least.'

‘Then you'd better get a move on, hadn't you?'

‘What sort of coffee do you want, then?' Cowley shook his head, as though the Guv had lost his last remaining marbles.

Neville hadn't the faintest idea. Triona would have known; she was the one who was always going on about Starbucks. He was more of a greasy spoon man himself. ‘Oh, I don't know. Surprise me. As long as it's good and strong…'

‘Right you are, Guv.' With a final bemused shrug, Cowley departed.

Head down. Neville reviewed what he'd written already, added a few words, and sighed. He knew that this account needed to be accurate rather than literary, but it just didn't seem to be working. Something was missing….

Like maybe a clue as to what this investigation was really about, and where it was headed.

Neville pushed that thought away from him and took refuge in procedural jargon. ‘The police were called to the scene at 12:13 a.m. and I myself arrived at approximately 12:50. The victim was a young male who appeared to be approximately fifteen or sixteen years of age. He was later identified as Sebastian Frost, aged fifteen. The pathologist confirmed death at the scene and surmised that the cause of death was a knife wound to the throat.' He had already decided not to mention the other knife wound, the one to the tongue—it hadn't yet been made public, either in the press release or at the news conference. They hadn't even told the parents about it. It was one of those little details that probably only the killer would know, so there was good reason to withhold it in the hopes that it would prove useful in future. That, and the smashed iPhone…

It seemed like only a few minutes had passed, but Sid was back already. ‘Sorry, Guv,' he said, plopping a white and green paper cup on the desk. ‘It took forever. The queue was out to the pavement! I got you a French Roast with a shot of steamed milk,' he added. ‘They said that was the strongest.'

‘Thanks, Sid.' Neville sighed again and returned his attention to the screen. It wasn't going to get any better, and they were already cutting it close for time. He pushed ‘print' with one hand and reached for the coffee with the other.

It had cooled off sufficiently for a cautious sip. To his surprise, it tasted pretty good; maybe Triona was onto something with all her Starbucks nonsense, he admitted to himself. He could have done without the steamed milk, but the coffee itself was flavourful and strong. ‘Thanks, Sid,' he repeated.

The page churned out of the printer; he grabbed for it with his free hand. ‘Time to hit the road,' he announced. It wasn't strictly necessary to take Cowley along, but it was one way of keeping him from getting into mischief—and he could drive, so Neville could focus his attention on other things.

They were halfway down the corridor, headed for the car park, when a voice hailed from behind. ‘DI Stewart! Just the man I was looking for.'

Neville turned: it was Danny Duffy, the boy wonder from the techie department, waving a sheaf of paper.

‘We're in a bit of a hurry,' Neville said, looking pointedly at his watch. ‘Inquest.'

‘For the Frost boy? That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I've been into his computer. He had it pretty well protected—passwords and firewalls and all that. Didn't make it easy for me, I have to tell you. But I found some things that might interest you.' Once again he waved the papers, with a self-satisfied grin.

‘It will have to wait.' Neville turned and added over his shoulder, ‘We'll be back in a couple of hours. I'll come and find you then.'

***

Brian had gone out to do some hospital visits, so Jane, feeling a bit adrift, decided it was time to pay a visit to the church and check on the flowers. By mid-week, things were usually looking rather sad, and some intervention was advisable to keep the flowers going for a few more days: topping up the water, judicious removal of wilted blooms, moving things round a bit to cover the gaps.

She wasn't the only one who'd thought about the flowers, Jane discovered as she went into the chancel. Wendy Page was standing, back to her, plucking a drooping lily out of one of the pedestals.

‘Hello,' she said, and Wendy turned.

‘Oh, hello, Jane.'

‘I see you're tidying the flowers,' she said unnecessarily.

‘They need it.'

‘How far have you got?' Jane looked round the chancel.

‘I've done the ones on the altar. You can do the other pedestal, if you like.'

Jane went obediently to the other side of the chancel and contemplated the bedraggled arrangement, trying to decide where to start.

‘Actually, Jane, I'm glad I've seen you,' Wendy said. ‘There's something I'm a bit worried about, and I thought you…' her voice trailed off.

It happened all of the time: people used Jane as a conduit to their vicar. They knew she was discreet and trustworthy, that she had his ear. So if they felt awkward about approaching Brian directly, they often had a word with her, knowing that it would be passed on in the right way, at the proper time. Jane considered it part of her job. Part of the privilege of being a vicar's wife.

‘What is it?' She smiled encouragingly.

‘It's Liz,' Wendy said. ‘Liz Gresham.'

Wendy's great friend. ‘Does Liz have some sort of problem?'

‘It's her son. Tom—you might not know him.' Wendy shrugged. ‘He doesn't come here very often, admittedly. Only at Christmas, and then only under duress. But he
was
christened here at All Saints'.'

Jane tried to picture Tom Gresham and failed. ‘How old is he?'

‘He's just had his sixteenth birthday, I think. Much younger than my two. He was a late baby,' Wendy added, smiling. ‘A bit of a surprise for Liz, to be frank. And her husband.'

Late baby. Jane's hand went involuntarily to her belly; she hoped that Wendy was too distracted to have noticed. ‘Oh?' she said neutrally, re-focusing her mind. Tom was a few years younger than the twins, then; she probably wouldn't have had any reason to have registered him, especially if he never came near the church. ‘Is Tom in some sort of trouble?'

‘I'm not sure,' admitted Wendy, yanking on another wilted bloom. ‘But Liz is in a real state. The police have been round to talk to Tom. Twice. About that boy who was stabbed.'

Jane hadn't really been following the story—she had other things on her mind—but was aware that the murder had featured prominently on the evening news, and that it had happened locally. On Paddington Green. Not in the parish, but not far away.

‘Do the police think that Tom was involved?'

‘He was a friend of the dead boy. Liz knows that much, but Tom won't tell her anything else. For all she knows, he might be a suspect.'

‘How dreadful for Liz. Does she have any reason to think—'

‘Oh, no.' Wendy shook her head. ‘He's a good boy, even if he doesn't come to church. Very polite, never been in any real trouble. Liz thinks the world of him.'

Which still didn't mean he wasn't involved, Jane said to herself. She'd seen enough as a vicar's wife—if not as a parent—to realise that mothers didn't always have the most realistic view of their children's capacity for getting into mischief.

‘Do you think it would help if Brian…had a word with Liz?' she suggested delicately.

‘Oh, yes!' Wendy turned to face her with a grateful smile. ‘I'm sure Liz would appreciate it. I've tried talking to her, telling her there's nothing to worry about, but she doesn't take any notice. She'd listen to Father Brian, though.'

‘Leave it with me,' said Jane.

‘Still…' Wendy frowned.

‘What is it?'

‘I just can't help thinking. Liz thinks the sun shines out of Tom's…you know. But Liz is the one who always says it. “No smoke without fire.” Makes you wonder, I have to say.'

***

‘I can go on your behalf,' Mark offered. ‘You don't have to go.'

Miranda Frost narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Don't be ridiculous,' she said icily. ‘Do you think I might have something more important to do today than attend my son's inquest?'

He tried to explain. ‘I just thought I might spare you something unpleasant.'

‘Something more unpleasant than having my son murdered, do you mean?' She turned her back on him and stalked away, saying over her shoulder as she reached the bottom of the stairs, ‘I'll be down in five minutes. Ready to go. Whether my husband chooses to go or not.'

Richard Frost gave Mark an apologetic smile, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. ‘Are you married?' he asked as soon as Miranda was safely out of ear-shot.

‘Not yet. I'm engaged.' He smiled involuntarily at the thought of Callie.

‘Well, good luck, mate. You might find that you need it.'

Callie is nothing like your wife, Mark wanted to say. But he realised how rude that might sound.

Inevitably his mind slipped into Callie-mode; he wondered what she was doing at that moment, and tried to imagine her in Cambridge. He'd talked to her the night before on her mobile, but it had been less than satisfactory. She'd been in the college bar with her friends, and—not surprisingly—she'd sounded distracted, not really engaged with him or their conversation. Had Adam been there, then, dazzling her with witty chit-chat and reminding her of what she'd once had? Mark pushed the thought away from him.