False Tongues (34 page)

‘Yes, very nice.'

‘Mum really likes her,' Chiara stated.

‘Oh, your mother knows her?' he asked, then realised that of course she would; Serena would make it her business to know her daughter's friends, and their families.

And then he remembered something that had passed him by while he daydreamed about Callie—Guilia Bonner's evident surprise when he'd told her of his engagement. ‘Serena didn't…' she'd said.

Serena hadn't told her that he was engaged.

There was a good reason for that, of course. Serena didn't know.

And then he saw it all, in a flash.

How naïve he'd been.

Serena had planned this—had planned for him to meet Guilia Bonner. A suitable match for him: Italian, a respectable widow, the right age. She'd probably told Guilia all about him—her handsome brother, who needed a nice Italian wife. Not about Callie, of course. Not that he was already attached, because that wasn't part of her plans for him. Callie was irrelevant as far as Serena was concerned, no more than a slight inconvenience in her master plan to marry him off to an acceptable woman.

Did Serena know that he and Guilia had been acquainted a long time ago? She couldn't possibly have known about his adolescent longings and dreams of the beautiful Guilia, because he hadn't told a soul—then or ever.

But that didn't matter. She'd seen a way to get him away from Callie and into the arms of a woman of her own choosing. She probably envisioned it as a double benefit, delivering Guilia from her evil mother-in-law at the same time as she rescued her brother from his unsuitable attachment.

Serena, the master string-puller.

Mark's anger flared, hot and immediate. His Italian temper didn't surface very often, but when it did, it was something to be reckoned with. He tried to bring it under control as he addressed Chiara.

‘Was it your mother's idea to ask me to go with you on the walk today?'

She nodded innocently. ‘Nonno said he'd take me. But Mum said I should ring
you
. She said to remind you that my father was dead, so you wouldn't be able to say no.'

***

Lexie had closed her bedroom door in Neville's face, leaving him to find his own way out.

On impulse, he stopped by the lounge, where Georgie was still watching the telly. Jeremy Kyle was over, evidently; she was now watching an ancient episode of
Star Trek
.

Star Trek. Star Wars.

‘Georgie,' he said, ‘could I ask you something?'

She turned. ‘Sure.'

‘Lexie's mates. You said they hang out here sometimes.'

‘Yeah.' Georgie nodded. ‘When Mum's at work. They watch telly, or just sit round talking and stuff.'

‘Do you ever listen to what they talk about?' he suggested delicately.

She shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘They never pay much attention to me. I'm just Lexie's little sister. Part of the furniture.'

Neville took that as a ‘yes'; he didn't imagine that Georgie missed much that went on in that flat. ‘Have you ever heard them talk about…bullying? Cyber-bullying?' he added self-consciously.

‘All the time.' Her voice was matter-of-fact, almost bored. ‘There's this kid they hate. Josh, he's called. They sit round and send him nasty texts, and talk about what they're going to put up on Facebook about him.'

‘Lexie, too?'

‘Of course.' She rolled her eyes; clearly she had no illusions about her sister.

Cautiously, Neville probed a bit further. ‘I think they all use different names. On Facebook. Is that right?'

She nodded. ‘Mostly
Star Wars
names. I think it was Seb who started that. He was Darth Vader.'

‘And the others? Do you know their names?'

‘Lexie is Princess Leia. That figures, doesn't it?' she grinned. ‘Hugo—he's Luke Skywalker.'

Neville suppressed a smile: he'd been right about that, then.

‘Tom is Han Solo. Olly's Chewbacca. I wouldn't want to be Chewbacca,' she added. ‘But Olly thinks it's cool. And Becca—she's Tom's girlfriend—she's Padmé. She wanted to be Princess Leia, but Lexie got there first.'

‘What about you?' he couldn't help asking. ‘Do you have a name?'

Georgie made a face. ‘They call me Yoda, sometimes,' she admitted. ‘That was Tom's idea.'

Yoda, Neville seemed to recall, was wise—sort of an oracle. ‘I'd take that as a compliment.'

‘I don't,' she said flatly. ‘They don't mean for it to be one.'

‘Just one more question,' he said before he took his leave. ‘Tiger—son or brother?'

‘Son,' said Georgie. ‘Poor little sod.'

***

Callie was on the phone with Marco when she saw Adam striding across the courtyard toward the porters' lodge, his duffle bag slung over his shoulder. Good riddance, she said to herself.

A minute later she spotted John Kingsley on his way to the Common Room for tea. This would be a good opportunity to catch him, she thought, just in case he didn't attend the dinner and there was no further chance to speak to him before the week ended. So she said a quick goodbye to Marco, pocketed her phone, and caught up with the Canon just as he joined the queue.

She slotted into the queue behind him. ‘Oh, hello, my dear,' he said, smiling. ‘Glad it's all over?'

‘It will be good to get home,' she acknowledged.

‘I hope it hasn't been too painful.'

‘Not at all.' Well, maybe it had been, she acknowledged to herself. But the end result was well worth it. ‘It's been a wonderful week,' she added. ‘And I wanted to thank you for all you've done to ensure that. So much hard work…'

‘You, and your fellow deacons, have done all of the work,' he demurred. ‘It's been a privilege for me to be on this journey with you.'

Callie looked round to make sure that none of her friends were within earshot, then she lowered her voice. ‘And as far as my…personal…issues are concerned, everything is sorted. I've even talked to Adam and told him that there's no place for him in my life.'

‘Well done!' John Kingsley gave her an approving smile.

‘So I owe you so much. And I wanted you to know how much I appreciate everything.'

He put his hand up like a stop sign. ‘You don't have to thank me. I just…facilitated, that's all. You would have worked it all out for yourself, eventually.'

‘Eventually is right!' Maybe she would have got there in the end, but how long, she wondered, would it have taken her, without his help?

Hanna Young came up behind Callie in the slowly moving tea queue, and Canon Kingsley turned to speak to her. ‘I must thank
you
, Miss Young, for your help with all of the photocopying, and everything else you've done this week.'

‘It's my job, to be honest,' Hanna said, but she looked pleased.

The Canon looked round. ‘I don't see the Principal,' he observed. ‘Come to think of it, I haven't seen her since breakfast. Is she all right, do you know?' He'd got to the front of the queue, and reached for a cup of tea.

‘I'm not really sure, to be honest,' admitted Hanna. 'She said she had a headache this morning. And she said to tell anyone who asked that she wasn't available. That's all I know—I thought she would have got over it and put in an appearance before now.' She frowned thoughtfully, then directed an apologetic shrug in Callie's direction. ‘I know I promised you that I wouldn't tell her about Dr Moody, but she made me tell her. To be honest, she did seem quite upset.'

‘What's all this about?' John Kingsley wanted to know. He was frowning as well—the first time Callie had seen him do so.

Callie took her tea and quickly snatched a biscuit from the plate, then moved out of the way to allow Hanna access to the serving table.

Hanna's face settled into a self-righteous expression. ‘I told her about Dr Moody's girlfriend. She must have been the only person in college who didn't know about it, to be honest. And like I said, she made me tell her.'

‘Girlfriend?' The Canon's frown deepened. ‘What on earth are you talking about?'

‘To be honest, I thought she deserved to know,' she said to Callie, then addressed the Canon. ‘Don't tell me
you
don't know about it. I thought everyone did. And you can't say I'm making it up, because I saw it with my own eyes. I saw him kissing and hugging a young girl. That's not right, no matter what you say.'

John Kingsley was staring at her with an appalled expression. ‘Let me get this straight,' he said quietly. ‘You told the Principal that you saw Keith Moody kissing—'

‘She was
very
young,' Hanna stated. ‘It was positively indecent. I mean, he's practically an old man, to be honest. No offence, Canon Kingsley,' she added.

He seemed to be making a great effort to keep from spilling his tea, and after steadying the cup with his hand, he placed it carefully on the nearest table. ‘Excuse me,' he said. ‘But you had no right. And I need to talk to her. Now.'

Chapter Nineteen

Neville still hadn't heard from Sergeant Pratt when he returned to the station, so he stopped by to see her.

She shook her head before he could speak. ‘No,' she said. ‘Paul Bradley isn't here yet.'

‘But…' Neville looked at his watch. ‘What is he playing at? Is he just hoping to run the clock out, so we'll have to let his son go?'

‘Probably.'

He brought his fist down, hard, on her desk in a gesture of frustration, and instantly regretted it. ‘Isn't there anything we can do?'

Sally Pratt grimaced in sympathy as he shook his throbbing hand. ‘I've been checking the codes,' she said. ‘If he doesn't show, and we can't reach him, I think it would be permissible to get a social worker to sit in on the interview.
In loco parentis
.'

‘Well, then. Do it.'

She nodded. ‘Right, Guv.'

Neville headed for his office. There was something he'd been planning to do, hours ago, before he'd been sidetracked by the bombshell about Sebastian: he wanted to have another look at the crime scene photos, and read through the postmortem report thoroughly. That nagging feeling that he'd missed something hadn't gone away; it had only intensified.

Something not quite right.

He rummaged through his in-tray and found the envelope of photos, buried under all sorts of things he didn't recognise and didn't want to think about. With a sweep of his hand he shoved aside all of the papers which had collected on the surface of his desk, pushing them into an untidy pile, to make room for the task at hand.

Neville sat down and spread the photos out across his desk, then tried to empty his mind of preconceptions as he studied them. What if he knew nothing about this case, and was looking at these photos for the first time? What would he notice?

The photos, taken from all angles, showed a tall, lean youth with curly dark hair, sprawled on the ground. The fatal stab wound, in his throat, was clearly visible.

It was in his throat. Not in his chest, as was often the case. According to the pathologist, it had severed the jugular, and death had been almost instantaneous.

His throat.

Presumably he had been standing when the fatal wound had been administered. Not lying on the ground like this.

He was a tall boy. The postmortem report would give his actual height, but Neville guessed it to be close to six feet.

How tall was Josh Bradley? No more than five foot three or four, and possibly less. Red Dwarf: they'd called him that for a reason.

Neville found the postmortem report in his in-tray and scanned it until he found the relevant bit: the description of the knife wound which had killed Sebastian Frost. Did the angle of the wound indicate that it was an upward stab, struck from below?

No. Dr Tompkins, in his usual precise way, was very clear about it. The force indicated by the depth of the wound, and its angle, meant that the knife had been virtually level when it entered the boy's throat.

So if Sebastian Frost had been standing—not kneeling, not sitting, not lying down—there was no way that Josh Bradley, slashing out with a kitchen knife, could have stabbed him—fatally—in the throat. Arm, maybe, or chest, but not throat.

Neville groaned, vindicated but at the same time robbed of his only viable suspect.

‘Josh probably couldn't have done it,' he said aloud, then reached for his phone to ring Sid Cowley.

***

Hours ago, Margaret had taken a sedative. She still had a few left in the bottle in the bathroom cabinet, issued to her in those dreadful days after Hal's death. She didn't like to take them; nothing but the severity of her migraine would have induced her to do so. But with the flashing lights and the stabbing pain pushing on her skull from the inside out, she decided that if she could only sleep through the migraine, perhaps she would have a chance of surviving it.

The sedative was a strong one, and it worked. Margaret slept through the afternoon, dragged back to consciousness only by the persistent pealing of her doorbell.

‘Whazzat?' she said aloud as the noise penetrated her deep sleep. She pried her eyes open, squinting in the dim light of her bedroom.

The migraine was still there, pounding away, and her stomach churned with nausea.

Keith. She remembered, and squeezed her eyes shut again, pulling the covers over her head, trying to keep still. If she didn't move, maybe it wouldn't hurt as much.

But the doorbell didn't stop.

Who could it be? What could possibly be so urgent? Was the college burning down? Had a nuclear holocaust been unleashed?

Eventually, when it became clear that it wasn't going to stop, Margaret pulled the covers back and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The top of her head felt like it was going to come off, but after a moment her feet found her slippers and she reached for her dressing gown.

‘This had better be important,' she said as she crossed the seemingly endless expanse of carpet, one step at a time, then clung to the bannister and went down the stairs to the door.

She'd bolted the door, so she drew back the bolt and pulled on the handle.

The expression on John Kingsley's face told her that she looked every bit as bad as she felt—probably worse, even. ‘What is it?' she said, trying not to sound too rude.

‘Oh, Margaret. I'm so sorry.' His own face was paler than usual, creased with concern. ‘Sorry to disturb you.'

‘Headache,' she said. ‘Migraine.' She didn't think she was capable of any more detailed explanation of her state.

‘I need to talk to you.' He put a hand on her arm, as if he feared she was about to close the door in his face. ‘It's very important. I wouldn't bother you if it wasn't.'

She wanted to tell him to go away. If it had been anyone else, she would have. But John Kingsley had given her her life back. Margaret squeezed her eyes shut; now it felt as though someone were pushing on her eyeballs from behind. By force of will she opened her eyes and managed a thin smile.

‘Come in, then,' she said.

***

‘You don't have to come all the way home with me, Uncle Marco,' Chiara said as the Number 55 bus trundled along High Holborn, close to Mark's flat. ‘I can get home myself from here, if you want to get off.'

‘No, that's all right. I want to have a word with your mother.'

That was an understatement: Mark had a good many words he wanted to share with Serena. And she wasn't going to like any of them.

They disembarked from the bus in Clerkenwell Road and walked the short distance to the di Stefano house, to find Angelina sprawled on the sofa in front of the telly in the lounge.

‘Did you have a good walk?' she asked.

Chiara's smile was dazzling. ‘It was brilliant. Emilia and I had the best time. And we did the whole course, so everyone has to give us lots of sponsorship money.'

Mark wasn't in the mood for small talk. ‘Is your mother at home?' he asked tersely.

‘Yes, she's back from the lunch shift,' Angelina confirmed. ‘She's in the kitchen, I think. Putting together some supper for us before she has to go back for the dinner shift.'

‘I'll tell her about the walk,' Chiara stated, heading for the kitchen.

Mark caught up with her and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘
Nipotina
, would you do me a big favour?'

‘Sure.' She turned, smiling.

‘Would you mind going to your room for—say, ten minutes? I need to talk to your mother in private.'

Chiara looked puzzled, but nodded agreement. ‘Okay.'

He pushed open the door of the kitchen and went in. ‘Serena,' he said. ‘We're back.'

She was stirring something on the cooker and didn't turn round. ‘Oh,
ciao
, Marco. Did Chiara have anything to eat this afternoon? She was so excited before she went that she wouldn't sit down and eat something properly.'

‘She had an ice cream,' he said, briefly sidetracked.

‘Then I'd better make sure to leave her a proper supper. Some protein. You should have got her a sandwich or something, not just an ice cream,' Serena added disapprovingly.

Her bossy tone of voice was enough to bring his focus back. 'Don't you tell me what to do.' He spoke in a soft but emphatic voice.

‘Marco?' She turned round and looked at him, eyebrows raised.

‘How dare you?' His volume went up a notch. ‘How dare you try to interfere in my life?'

‘What are you talking about?'

‘You know damn well what I'm talking about! That woman. Guilia Bonner. You…you set it up! Don't try to deny it.'

Serena crossed her arms across her chest. ‘Okay, I set it up. For your own good, Marco. She's perfect for you. I just thought—'

Mark cut across her words. ‘You
thought?
For my own good?' He shook his head. ‘Has it escaped your notice, Serena, that I already have a girlfriend? One I've managed to find for myself, without any help from you?'

‘But Guilia's perfect for you,' she repeated.

‘And Callie's not? Just because you didn't pick her out?' His hands were clenched into fists. ‘That's the problem, isn't it? You want to control my life, and Callie is outside of your control.'

‘You must admit she's not ideal,' Serena stated. ‘I mean, she doesn't really fit into the family, does she? She's a nice enough girl, and she tries, but—'

‘Stop it!' Consciously he unclenched his fists. ‘Do you have any idea how hurtful that is? How disrespectful? It's disrespectful to Callie, and it's disrespectful to me. It's downright insulting, in fact. Don't you think I'm capable of making my own choices?'

‘I just don't want you to make a big mistake,' she said, with a placatory gesture.

‘A mistake? Finding Callie is the best thing that's ever happened to me.' Mark swallowed, then narrowed his eyes at his sister. ‘I love her. In fact, I'm going to marry her. I've asked her, and she's said yes. We'll be married as soon as we can. Whether you like it or not, Serena. Whether
la famiglia
approves or not. I'm going to marry her. And if you can't accept that—and accept that I'm not going to change my mind, no matter how many nice Italian women you dangle in front of me—then I don't need
you
in my life any longer. I've made my choice.' He turned and headed for the door, adding over his shoulder, ‘I choose Callie.'

Mark slammed the door behind him.

***

‘I'll put the kettle on, shall I?' suggested John Kingsley.

Margaret didn't have the strength or the will to refuse. ‘All right.'

She sat at the kitchen table, head in her hands, while the Canon switched on the kettle and found what he needed by trial and error. At last he set a mug in front of her.

‘Sweet tea,' he said. ‘Plenty of sugar.'

Margaret hated sweet tea. But she knew that it was supposed to be good for shock, so she drank it obediently, grimacing at its taste.

‘Now,' he said. ‘We need to talk.'

She shook her head, and instantly regretted it; she hadn't thought the pain in her head could possibly get any worse, but she'd been wrong. ‘There's nothing to say.'

‘There's a great deal to say. I understand that your secretary has been telling you some rather…ill-advised…gossip. About Keith.'

‘It's not gossip. She saw it herself. And obviously everyone in college knew about it. Everyone but me.'

‘No,' said John Kingsley firmly. ‘I didn't know. If I had, I would have said something. To her, and to anyone who was passing on such nonsense. Because it's not true.'

‘She saw it,' Margaret repeated. ‘She saw them kissing. And I feel…such a fool.' That, she acknowledged to herself, was the bitterest pill of all to swallow. The fact that she had invested so much hope, so much emotion, in this new relationship, to see it all turn to dust and ashes, was bad enough. But the fact that everyone knew about it, that people were talking about her, laughing at her behind her back…

John reached across the table, took her hand, and gave it a squeeze. ‘It's not what it seems to be,' he stated. ‘You have to trust me on that, Margaret.'

‘If you know so much about it, then explain it to me. In words of one syllable, since I'm evidently so thick that I can't see the obvious.'

‘Do you remember yesterday, when we talked? And I said that I thought you and Keith would be good for each other, because you'd both suffered and could help each other to heal?'

She sighed. ‘Of course I remember.'

He poured himself a mug of tea. ‘I assumed that Keith had told you about his own…troubles, and that you knew what I was talking about. It seems I was wrong.'

‘He hasn't told me anything.' Suddenly Margaret recalled that Keith had tried to tell her something last night, and she'd forestalled him with her confessions about Hal. But…what? What could it be, that would explain the sort of behaviour he'd demonstrated?

‘You mustn't think badly of him for that,' John Kingsley said, sipping his tea. ‘It would have been very difficult for him to share it.'

‘Well, tell me, then!' she demanded. ‘If you know what's going on, then you'd better tell me now.'

He shook his head. ‘I can't. I'm very sorry, my dear, but it isn't my story to tell. Keith will have to tell you himself. Until then, you'll just have to trust me. Keith hasn't done anything…dishonourable. I promise you that.' He paused, then went on, ‘He loves you. I'm sure of that. Trust me—and trust
him
.'

Margaret closed her eyes.

***

Neville was still looking at the crime scene photos when Cowley arrived, in response to his urgent summons.

‘What's up, Guv?' Cowley asked. ‘No luck so far with finding the knife, I'm afraid. It's a big canal, you know. It might take days to find it.'