False Tongues (21 page)

‘She hasn't always been like this,' Richard continued, as if he'd heard Mark's unspoken comment on his wife. ‘I don't think she knows how to cope with a situation that she can't control. Miranda's a take-charge sort of person.'

‘Yes, I'd noticed.' Mark tried to keep his voice neutral, un-ironic.

‘In her job she has to be. If someone's brought into A and E with a traumatic injury, or a catastrophic illness that requires surgical intervention, she's right in there. Making decisions, taking action.' Richard shook his head. ‘You should see her. She's bloody brilliant.'

‘Was that how the two of you met?'

‘It was, as a matter of fact.' Richard smiled, and in that smile Mark could see the depth of his love and admiration for his wife. ‘I'm an anaesthetist. Our eyes met in theatre, over the inert body of a traffic accident victim. Very romantic.'

‘Love at first sight?' It had been that way with Callie; they'd met on an aeroplane, by some sweet twist of fate—or divine intervention—seated next to each other, and by the time they'd reached their destination Mark was besotted.

‘Something like that.' Richard's mouth twisted in a self-deprecating way. ‘For me, anyway. I never did understand what she saw in me. But it's lasted for almost twenty years. In spite of…' His voice trailed off; he looked away. ‘Oh, God,' he said in a totally different voice, so quietly that Mark strained to hear him. ‘I don't want to do this. But I have to. Or Miranda will despise me even more than she does already.'

‘It won't be so bad.' Mark tried to sound cheerful, encouraging, but he suspected it wasn't very convincing. ‘It's just a formality today. I've been to more of these things than you've had hot dinners, and—'

‘But it's not your son.' Richard's voice cut through his weasel words, and as he turned his head Mark could see that his eyes welled with tears.

‘No. It's not.'

‘I'm ready,' Miranda announced, appearing at the door. ‘Let's do this.'

***

‘No,' said Callie. ‘No, I don't want to.'

‘Come on. It will be fun.' Tamsin was practically bouncing up and down.

‘We mustn't miss the afternoon session.'

‘You know how you hate role-playing,' Val chipped in. ‘You haven't been called on to do it in front of everyone yet. I think it's about time for your luck to run out on that score. Your turn is coming.'

‘Well…' Callie really didn't want to skive off, and she certainly didn't want to go shopping for skimpy underwear. Not now, not ever. ‘We can't go dressed like this,' she said lamely. ‘Not in our clericals. Can you imagine?'

‘That's a point,' Val admitted, taking charge. ‘We'll have to change our clothes, then. Tam, you take Callie to her room and help her choose something to wear. Something inconspicuous—jeans, maybe. Then you can do the same.' The look she directed at Tamsin said ‘Don't let her escape.' She went on, ‘I'll go home and get into some mufti. We'll meet at the porters' lodge in—what—quarter of an hour?'

‘Make it twenty minutes.' Tamsin said, grabbing Callie's arm.

‘But I don't want to,' Callie protested, knowing she was onto a loser. Tamsin, at this point, was like a force of nature, not to be resisted.

They went up B staircase, Tamsin following close on Callie's heels—as if, Callie thought, she was afraid she would turn and make a run for it. Maybe she would, given a chance…

Once in Callie's room, Tamsin went straight for the wardrobe. ‘Boring,' she pronounced as she pulled out one thing after another. ‘Too clerical. You might as well wear your dog collar, or tattoo ‘clergy' on your forehead. Don't you have anything the least bit sexy?'

‘No. This is a theological college, not a lap-dancing club. In case you hadn't noticed.'

‘Oh, Callie, lighten up!' Tamsin ordered. Eventually she settled on a pair of jeans and Callie's favourite stripy jumper. ‘Not very exciting, but at least it won't make you look like a nun,' she declared.

As Callie pulled off her dog collar and started unbuttoning her blouse, Tamsin fished her phone out of her handbag. ‘I'll ring Nicky,' she said. ‘I'm sure he'll want to go with us.'

‘Absolutely not!' Callie stared at her in horror. ‘You must be mad!'

‘But he'll be hurt if we leave him out.'

‘He'll never know, if you don't tell him.'

Tamsin pouted. ‘He'll know if we're all not there at the session this afternoon—you, me, and Val. He'll figure it out.'

‘No,' Callie said in her firmest voice—the voice she used when Bella did something naughty.

Then it was Tamsin's turn to stare. ‘Oh, Callie, you can't!'

‘Can't what?'

‘Wear that bra. To go shopping for underwear.'

Callie looked down at her bra. It was perfectly serviceable—Marks and Spencer's, identical to all of the ones she owned. ‘What's the matter with it? It's clean. It doesn't have any holes in it.'

‘But people will see it. And it's so…booooring. What did you do, go into Marks and say “Give me your most boring, least sexy bra”?'

‘I don't have anything else,' Callie said with exaggerated patience. ‘And anyway, I thought that was the whole point of this exercise. To get something more…alluring.'

Tamsin snorted. ‘Trust me. That won't be difficult.'

***

Lilith Noone was the first person Neville noticed in the Coroner's Court. She was sitting front and centre in the press area, and she was smiling. Her smile, he fancied, was directed at him—a self-satisfied smirk that made him distinctly uneasy.

Did she know something?
Could
she possibly be onto something? He knew from experience that one underestimated Lilith Noone at their own peril. She was cunning; she was sneaky. Nothing was too low or underhanded for her. She wasn't, in his opinion, as clever as she thought she was, but that didn't stop her from being dangerous. It might even make her more so.

Neville made a mental note that, whatever happened today, he would have a look at the
Globe
tomorrow morning, before he had any contact with Evans. Just so he wouldn't be caught out, in case she pulled some sort of a fast one.

Lilith Noone turned her head to the side and he followed her line of sight: Mark Lombardi had just come in and was settling Miranda and Richard Frost in the seats reserved for the family of the deceased. So he hadn't been able to talk them out of coming; Neville wasn't surprised. He couldn't really imagine Miranda Frost opting out of the procedure, distressing as it might prove to be. And if Miranda wanted to come, Richard would be there too, whether he wanted to or not.

A moment later, Hereward Rice swept into the room in all of his self-important majesty, smoothing back his wavy salt-and-pepper hair as everyone stood. He bowed formally, asked the assembled crowd to sit, then waited a moment for them to settle.

‘I open formally the inquest touching the death of Sebastian Frost,' he said.

An audible sigh was heard in the courtroom. Neville glanced at the Frosts, from which direction the sound had come. Not from Miranda, he judged; she was pale but composed, or at least under control—her lips pressed together in a tight line and her hands clasped in her lap. Richard, though, was bowed over with his head in his hands, and looked as though he were about to be sick. Mark murmured something in his direction; he shook his head.

Neville glanced toward Lilith Noone, who was scribbling something in her notebook. Smirking, damn her.

Hereward Rice ignored all of the drama and ploughed on. ‘I shall call upon Detective Inspector Neville Stewart, Senior Investigating Officer, to make a statement.'

Showtime, then. Neville rose and went to the witness stand, where he was sworn in.

Next to the Savile Row tailoring of Hereward Rice's immaculate suit, and his suave, in-control manner, Neville felt shabby as well as under-prepared. But he was resolved to hold his own and not allow himself to be intimidated.

‘Mr Stewart,' said Hereward Rice, ‘you are the Senior Investigating Officer in charge of the investigation into the death of Sebastian Frost?'

‘That is correct.'

‘And the police are treating this death as a homicide?'

‘Yes, Sir.'

The coroner nodded. ‘I would like you to tell the court about the state of play of your investigation, including the identification of the deceased, which is the chief concern of the court at this time.'

Once upon a time, Neville knew, the pathologist would have been called to give testimony as to the identity of the deceased. But pathologists were busy men with limited time for that sort of thing, and the inquest at this point was a mere formality. Dr Tompkins would doubtless be required to give expert testimony when the inquest was re-opened in a few months' time; for now, Neville's sworn word would have to do. He pulled the computer print-out from his jacket pocket and unfolded the single sheet of paper.

He was determined not to look at the Frosts, nor at the press area, so he focused his eyes on his paper and read it out, formally and mechanically, trying not to think about what the words meant. It sounded impossibly stilted and formulaic to his own ears.

‘Thank you, DI Stewart,' said Hereward Rice, when he had finished. ‘Now I have a few questions for you.'

‘Yes, Sir.'

‘Has anyone been arrested or charged in connection with this homicide?'

Neville knew it was a formal, legal question which had to be asked, but he couldn't help feeling affronted at the implications of failure on his part which it contained.

‘No, Sir.' His eyes were drawn in spite of himself to Miranda Frost, who stared at him stonily.

‘And you said that no witnesses to this fatal assault have come forward.'

‘No, Sir. But we continue to appeal for witnesses, or any information that is pertinent to our investigations,' he added.

‘And your investigations are ongoing.'

‘Yes, of course.'

‘Then I will adjourn this inquest, pending further investigation, until…' Hereward Rice paused and consulted a calendar. ‘The fifteenth of July. Is it reasonable to expect that someone will have been arrested and charged by then, DI Stewart?'

Bastard. ‘I would hope so, Sir,' Neville said stiffly.

‘Good.' The coroner switched his attention from Neville to the seats reserved for the family. ‘And, in line with Department of Justice guidelines, I would like to inform the family that the body will be released to them within a maximum of four weeks.'

Now Neville couldn't bear to look at the Frosts; instead he turned his eyes to the press area.

Lilith Noone was still smiling.

***

Callie hoped, as she returned to college, that she wouldn't run into anyone to whom she'd have to explain her absence. She was on her own: Tamsin had, in spite of Callie's protests, texted Nicky, who had joined them on their shopping expedition, and the two of them had gone to Auntie's Tea Shop afterwards, while Val had decided to stop at Sainsbury's for some groceries. Callie, though, was sufficiently overcome by guilt that she wanted to be back in time for Evening Prayer.

She moved quickly through the porters' lodge, holding her shopping bag behind her, then kept close to the building as she skirted the courtyard toward B staircase. Dodging round a pillar, she nearly collided head-on with someone coming, equally furtively, the other way. They both jumped, hands clutched to their hearts, and stared at each other.

‘Oh! You nearly scared the life out of me!' Callie gasped.

‘You almost gave me a heart attack!' It was Jennifer Groves, one of Callie's former classmates—she of the gossip-worthy new haircut. It nearly rendered her unrecognisable: once mousy brown and long, it had been cut in a stylish wedge and skillfully highlighted with warm gold.

‘I was just…well, I didn't want anyone to see me,' admitted Callie, still trying to conceal her shopping bag. It was a posh one, stiff and shiny, with braided handles and the logo of the shop in gold on the side.

‘Me, too.' Jennifer gave a sheepish laugh and produced the book she'd been holding behind her. ‘Library book,' she confessed. ‘From the college library. I found it in my stuff at home recently, and thought I'd try to sneak it back when no one was around.'

‘I was trying to get back in time for Evening Prayer.' Callie's breathing was returning to normal.

‘Skiving, were you?'

‘I suppose you could say that.'

Jennifer nodded. ‘I didn't think I'd seen you at the afternoon session. You, and Val and Tamsin and Nicky.'

Oh, dear. It had been a bit naïve, Callie realised, to think that their absence,
en masse
, would have gone unnoticed. ‘Retail therapy,' she admitted.

‘Lucky you. I'm not saying the afternoon session wasn't interesting. But I'm beginning to suffer from deacon overload. Not to mention a numb bum.'

They both laughed. ‘I hear you,' Callie said with feeling. ‘On both counts.'

‘Where are your co-skivers, then? Didn't they come back with you?'

‘Val went to the supermarket, and Tamsin and Nicky opted for tea at Auntie's.'

Jennifer gave her a shrewd look. ‘She's still after him, then? Tamsin's an intelligent woman. Doesn't she realise that it's never going to happen? I mean, come on.'

The words echoed Callie's own feelings, but she felt compelled to defend her friend. ‘She can't help the way she feels,' she said. ‘Sometimes it's like that. No matter what your brain tells you, your heart has a mind of its own. And intelligence has nothing to do with it.'

Jennifer lowered her voice and glanced over her shoulder. ‘Like Mad Phil, you mean? Mad Phil and his young girlfriend? I always thought Mad Phil was more or less asexual. I mean, who would ever have thought he would succumb to the lures of the flesh? It just goes to show you.'