False Tongues (5 page)

How Sebastian hated those springy curls—he claimed they made him look like a freak. Short of shaving his head, there was no way to get rid of them. Miranda, on the other hand, would have given anything for a bit of curl in her poker-straight locks. For years she had worn her hair long—Richard preferred it that way—but now she kept it quite short, in a wash-and-wear cut that was more suitable for her demanding lifestyle as well as for her age. The only trouble was that every few weeks she needed to take the time to go to the salon and have it trimmed, or she would start looking rather like a shaggy dog. Sebastian liked to tease her about it. ‘Time to go to the groomer, Mum,' he would say when she was overdue for a haircut.

She woke Richard; she told him that Sebastian was missing, and explained what she'd done to try to find him. Richard knew no more than she did about their son's whereabouts.

‘I think we should ring the police,' he said.

***

Breakfast was already in full swing, Callie saw as she entered the dining hall. She grabbed a tray and headed for the serving station.

‘Full English, love?' The man behind the counter, a youngish bloke with a cheeky grin, was the one who usually worked the breakfast shift. He gave her a wink, as he'd always done. Callie wasn't sure whether he reserved his winks for her or dished them out as indiscriminately as he served up eggs, bacon, and sausages. She smiled and nodded.

‘Hold the beans, right?' he remembered.

‘Right.' She was impressed.

‘And an extra toast.'

‘Thanks.'

Callie collected her cutlery, poured herself a cup of tea from the pot at the end of the serving counter, then turned to the buzzing room to look for her friends.

Tamsin was the easiest to spot: her mop of yellow Shirley Temple ringlets always stood out in a crowd. She was sitting at a table on the far side of the dining hall, Nicky at her side, so Callie turned her steps in that direction.

But wait.

On Tamsin's other side, his head inclined toward her as he talked, was Adam.

Callie turned round, before any of them saw her, and went for the first empty seat she could find, her back to the treacherous Tamsin. Bending her face over her tray, she took a deep breath and tried to compose herself.

It was only natural and to be expected, she told herself firmly. Tamsin wasn't being disloyal to her by talking to Adam. By virtue of Callie's own relationship with Adam, he had been part of their little group up until the very end of their time at Archbishop Temple House. Until that ill-fated parish placement, when he'd met the wonderful Pippa. Still, Tamsin was
her
friend….

She must get over it. Adam was here this week, and she couldn't avoid him forever. She had to be a grown-up about it, and trust that he would do the same. After all, she'd endured the ordeal of dinner with Pippa, months back. And she had Marco now. Wonderful Marco, whom she loved deeply. Marco, with whom she was going to spend the rest of her life.

It was just that here, in this place…

‘Good morning,' said the woman across from her.

‘Oh. Hi,' Callie replied, raising her head.

The woman wasn't someone she recognised—not one of her fellow deacons, then. She was perhaps a year or two older than Callie, she judged: early thirties, possibly. Neatly and unremarkably dressed—no dog collar—she had a rather flat, pale face with widely spaced eyes. Her mid-length hair was tinted a shade not found in nature, a sort of burgundy rinse over what was probably a nondescript brown.

‘I'm Hanna,' she said, then amplified. ‘Hanna Young. H-A-N-N-A. No H at the end.'

‘I'm Callie Anson. I'm here for Deacons' Week.'

Hanna Young nodded. ‘Right. I recognise your name.'

‘How…?'

‘I'm the Principal's secretary,' she explained. ‘Her
personal
secretary. PA, really, to be honest. And I've had quite a lot to do with organising Deacons' Week.'

Callie remembered that the Principal's old secretary had been planning to retire at the end of last year. This was her replacement, then. ‘It must have been a fair amount of work,' she said.

‘Oh, yes. You have no idea. The admin nightmares…People unable to commit, changing their minds…' Hanna tutted in displeasure.

Blushing guiltily and averting her face, Callie made an attempt at a sympathetic noise. It may have taken her a while to make up her mind and commit, but at least she hadn't pulled out at the last minute, as she'd been tempted to do.

‘Would you believe that I had one person who didn't decide until yesterday to come? Easter Sunday! Did he think the housekeeping staff would be working yesterday to get his room ready? How inconsiderate can you be?'

Adam. Clueless as ever. Callie tried not to smile. She bent over her tray and applied herself to eating her breakfast.

Hanna lowered her voice, glancing toward the top table. ‘The Principal—I worry about her, to be honest. Don't you think she's looking tired?'

‘Well…I suppose.' The Principal didn't look appreciably different to Callie, but it was easier to agree.

‘I don't think she's ever got over what happened with her husband, to be honest,' Hanna went on in a loud whisper. ‘But then you wouldn't, would you?'

Callie shrugged; it was all she could do, since she had no idea what the other woman was talking about. She knew that Margaret Phillips had been married, and that she had been one of the first female archdeacons in the Church of England before coming to Archbishop Temple House as Principal. Beyond that she had no knowledge of the Principal's private life.

Hanna was looking at her, seemingly waiting for a more satisfying response. ‘What
did
happen with her husband?' Callie asked obediently, spearing some egg and bacon on her fork.

It was Hanna's turn to shrug. ‘I couldn't possibly say.' She compressed her lips, then added, ‘I'm in a position of trust, you realise. To be honest, the Principal hates it when people talk about her.'

***

We're overreacting, Miranda Frost told herself as she made another coffee for Richard; the first one had gone cold while she was ringing round Sebastian's friends. When Sebastian comes home he's going to be furious.

‘I'm not a child.' ‘Don't baby me, Mum.' Her son's angry words sounded in Miranda's head.

But Richard had insisted on ringing the police. Now he was showering, getting dressed. Waiting for them to arrive.

Surely it wouldn't be long. The police station was nearby, and a missing teenager ought to have some sort of priority over traffic accidents and other routine business. Miranda wasn't sure why she was gripped by such a sense of urgency; she tried to calm herself down with deep breaths.

Still, it seemed an eternity as they drank coffee and Richard re-inspected the entire house, top to bottom. ‘No. He's not here,' he reported a moment before the door bell chimed.

The policeman on the doorstep was in uniform: a shortish but powerfully built young man with spiky dark hair who identified himself as PC Jones. He checked the piece of paper in his hand. ‘And you're Dr Frost?' he asked, looking between Miranda and Richard. ‘Both of you, they said?'

‘I'm Dr Frost,' said Richard. ‘My wife is a doctor as well, but she's a surgeon, so technically she's Mrs Frost.'

PC Jones shook his head in confusion. ‘Whatever.'

Miranda invited him into the front room and offered him coffee, which he refused, getting out his notebook as he took a seat on the sofa. ‘If you can just give me the details, Mrs Frost. Or Dr Frost.'

‘I told them on the phone,' Richard cut in impatiently. ‘Our son is missing. Sebastian. He's not in the house, he's not answering his phone, and his friends don't know where he is.'

‘He didn't sleep in his bed last night,' added Miranda.

The policeman turned his head and looked at her, frowning, then scratched his head with his pencil. ‘How can you be sure of that, Mrs Frost?'

To her it was obvious, not deserving of time-wasting explanations. ‘Because his bed is made. It hasn't been slept in.'

‘How do you know for sure that he didn't sleep in it and then make it?'

Miranda took a deep breath. ‘Sebastian never makes his bed. Never. Nothing I can say to him ever makes any difference. He just won't do it. So every afternoon the cleaner makes his bed. While he's at school.'

‘
Every
afternoon?' pursued PC Jones. ‘Yesterday was Sunday, Mrs Frost. Easter Sunday, in actual fact. Was your cleaner here yesterday?'

‘Yes, she was. Briefly. As a special favour to me.' He was looking at her strangely; Miranda felt compelled to explain. ‘My husband and I both work long and irregular hours. In A and E. Mrs Bolt has been with us for many years. She's more than just a cleaner.'

PC Jones made a note. ‘Mrs Bolt, you say. Have you been in touch with her regarding your son's whereabouts?'

Why on earth hadn't she thought of ringing Iris? Miranda turned to Richard, almost gasping with relief. ‘That's it. She'll know where he is. Can you ring her now?'

‘Yes, of course.' Richard reached for his mobile.

But Iris Bolt didn't know where Sebastian was; she hadn't seen him since yesterday afternoon.

Having invested so much in that brief hope, Miranda now felt the panic rising again, more insistent than ever. Someone should be doing something; someone should be out there looking for him.

‘The hospitals,' PC Jones went on methodically, as if consulting a mental checklist for missing persons. ‘Have you been in touch with them? With A and E?'

‘We work there,' Richard reminded him with more than a touch of ironic impatience. ‘We were there last night. Both of us, until late.'

‘There are other hospitals in London,' pointed out the policeman.

Oh, God. What was he suggesting? Miranda didn't even want to think about it.

PC Jones moved on. ‘So could you tell me about the last time you saw your son? When was it? And where?'

‘Yesterday afternoon,' Miranda said promptly. ‘Early afternoon, just before I went to work. He was in here, in this room, watching the telly.' She indicated the enormous plasma screen mounted on the wall. ‘A film. Sebastian has a telly in his room, of course, but sometimes he likes to come in here and watch the large screen, especially if it's a film.'

‘I think it was a James Bond film,' Richard added. ‘I left a bit after Miranda, and it was nearly over at that point.'

‘So you left him on his own? Did he indicate his plans for the rest of the day?'

‘Sebastian is fifteen,' Miranda said, hoping she didn't sound defensive. ‘He's quite capable of being left on his own.' She ran her finger over the nobbly fabric on the arm of the chair. ‘And no, he didn't say anything about his plans. His friend Hugo told me that Sebastian went to his house later in the afternoon to play a video game. And,' she remembered, ‘he must have come home and cooked something for himself later on, after Mrs Bolt was here. He left some dishes in the sink.'

PC Jones' pen moved across the page of his notebook, scratching, scratching. So slowly; Miranda wanted to scream at him, but she clamped her lips together and stared down at her lap. She knew that if she caught Richard's eye, one of them would probably say something they'd regret.

‘Now,' said the policeman, looking up from his notebook after what seemed like hours. ‘Could you please show me your son's room?'

***

Jane Stanford prepared breakfast for her husband while he was saying Morning Prayer in church. On his own, no doubt; what parishioner in their right mind would turn out on Easter Monday, after an intensive run of services? Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, the Easter Vigil, and Easter Day: even Jane, who took her role as vicar's wife seriously, had had enough of church for a few days.

Making Brian's breakfast was something she did every day, unquestioningly and dutifully, but today she was feeling cranky and out-of-sorts. She just couldn't get out of her mind something that she'd overheard on Saturday afternoon, during the annual ritual of doing the Easter flowers.

Wendy Page, wife of one of the churchwardens and leading light of the flower rota in her own right, had been working on arranging the pedestal in the Lady chapel, chattering away to someone whose murmured acknowledgements didn't immediately identify her to Jane. Obviously Wendy didn't realise how far her voice was carrying in the reverberant acoustic of the church, and Jane—doing the altar flowers in the chancel, on the other side of the screen—didn't bother to alert her.

‘I ran into Mildred Channing at the greengrocers' the other day,' Wendy said. ‘Moaning as usual. She said that the vicar hadn't brought her home communion for a while—he's been sending the curate instead.'

Jane couldn't quite make out what her companion said in reply. Wendy went on, ‘Mildred says she doesn't object to women clergy,
per se
. But she thinks it's terribly dangerous, letting these young women loose in the Church like that. Working hand-in-hand with susceptible middle-aged men. “I know they're priests,” she said, “but they're men for all that. Even Father Brian. I wouldn't be surprised if he had a soft spot for that young woman,” she said. “Or even more than that. No fool like an old fool.”' Wendy chuckled knowingly. ‘I'm not saying it's true, mind, but it does make you think.'

It had certainly made Jane think. Not that she believed it. Not for a minute. Brian…and Callie? No way. It was ridiculous—of course it was.

But if that's what people were saying…

‘No smoke without fire,' had been the quiet but audible reply.

Did anyone seriously imagine that Brian was casting longing looks at Callie in the stalls at Morning Prayer, or surreptitiously groping her behind the font?