Secret Sins: A Callie Anson (15 page)

Why not?

He stretched out his hand for the phone and punched in the number.

Monday was the day when Brian Stanford, by long custom, visited those housebound parishioners who wished to receive the Sacrament. When Callie had first come to the parish she had begun accompanying him on his visits, and it was now part of her weekly routine.

All weekend, Callie hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Morag. She mentioned it to Brian after Morning Prayer. ‘I think we ought to call on Morag Hamilton today,’ she suggested. ‘She wasn’t in church yesterday.’

‘Morag Hamilton?’ He furrowed his brow vaguely. ‘Remind me.’

‘I told you about her last week. I’ve been to see her a couple of times. You said that I should,’ she added, knowing how
sensitive
he could be if he thought she was superseding her remit as a curate and flouting his authority over her.

Brian nodded. ‘Oh, the Scottish woman. Grey hair.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Is she ill, do you know?’ He glanced at his watch, as if he had more important things on his mind, or some pressing
engagement
awaiting him.

Callie wondered where to begin. ‘Well, it’s a long story,’ she said. ‘I saw her on Saturday.’

‘You can tell me later,’ Brian stated. ‘On the way, perhaps.’

He was already in motion, already heading home. Maybe, Callie speculated, he was specially hungry this morning and couldn’t wait another minute for his breakfast.

In the afternoon, with no results at all from the house-to-house and no other leads, Neville called an informal press conference. He wasn’t about to involve Rachel Norton in it—this wasn’t that sort of case—but he’d run out of ideas for expanding the investigation, and this just might produce something useful. It couldn’t hurt, at any rate.

He distributed photos of the dead man, then made a brief statement.

Trevor Norton had been killed on Friday morning, he stated, while out jogging along the Grand Union Canal, which he did every day at that time. It was known that he’d been wearing an iPod, which was now missing. If anyone had seen Trevor Norton that particular morning, or knew anything else which might be relevant, he would appreciate them ringing a special number.

For good measure, and to exploit the sympathy angle, he added that Mr. Norton left behind a wife who was soon to give birth to their first child. ‘They’d only been married for a year,’ he said.

That, he could tell immediately, had been a clever touch: the journalists looked at each other, made tutting noises, and scribbled furiously.

‘Do you have any questions?’ Neville invited.

‘What is Mrs. Norton’s Christian name?’ came from a man in the corner.

‘Rachel.’

A smartly-dressed woman raised her hand. ‘Do you have a statement from Mrs. Norton that we might use?’

‘Not at this time.’ Perhaps, he decided, bringing Rachel into this hadn’t been such a brilliant idea; he’d better ring Yolanda and warn her. ‘Mrs. Norton is, understandably, quite distressed. I would appreciate it if you could respect her privacy.’

There was one television camera present, though Neville didn’t expect that this would ever make it onto the evening news. The reporter next to the cameraman asked, ‘Has Mrs. Norton provided a description of the iPod?’

Neville looked at him blankly. He was not a member of the iPod generation; CDs represented the extent of his technological frontiers. Truth to tell, he much preferred LPs, and possessed a treasured collection of traditional Irish music in that ancient format.

Weren’t, he wondered, all iPods created equal? White things, with white earphones? He’d have to ask Cowley about that. It
could
be important, he realised: a new and possibly distinctive iPod in some kid’s possession could ring a bell that would
provide
the break to crack this case. ‘I’ll need to get back to you on that,’ he said.

‘Inspector Stewart,’ pursued the smart-looking woman, ‘do you have anything to say about this crime as a reflection of the state of the nation’s youth? The way they’re making the streets of this city a no-go zone for decent citizens going about their business?’

He certainly didn’t want to open that can of worms. His boss, Detective Superintendent Evans, wouldn’t like him to say anything that reflected badly on the Met’s ability to police the
streets of London. ‘We have no information about the
perpetrator
of this crime,’ he said firmly. ‘For all we know, it could have been a pensioner.’

It didn’t take long for the press to find Rachel Norton. First came a phone call from one of the broadsheets, fielded by Yolanda and turned away gently but firmly. ‘Mrs. Norton has nothing to say to you at this time,’ she stated. ‘If she chooses to issue a statement, I’m sure you’ll hear about it.’

The tabloids, though, were not likely to take such a genteel approach. The doorbell chimed within an hour of the press conference.

Yolanda put on her most forbidding face, narrowing her eyes at the woman on the short path between the pavement and the house. ‘Mrs. Norton isn’t available,’ she stated firmly, her breath puffing out into the cold, damp air.

The woman, wrapped in an expensive-looking camel
overcoat
, didn’t look like a journalist; she gave Yolanda a radiant smile. ‘Actually, it’s
you
I wanted to speak to.’

That caught Yolanda off guard ‘
Me
?’

‘I wanted to ask your opinions and feelings about street crime.’

‘Street crime!’

‘And about the yob culture which makes it difficult for law-abiding citizens of this country to go about their business unmolested,’ the woman added smoothly.

Yolanda couldn’t help herself; it was a subject on which she had strong opinions and passionate feelings. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that there are a lot of parents out there who ought to be locked up.’

‘You blame the parents, then.’

‘You see these kids out roaming around at midnight—later than that, even. It’s a disgrace. What are their parents thinking about? Do they even know where they are, who they’re with, what they get up to?’

The woman nodded in agreement. ‘Do they even
care
?’
‘People who can’t be bothered to keep track of their kids just don’t deserve to have them,’ stated Yolanda with all the passion of her frustrated childlessness.

In the afternoon, Callie went round the parish with Brian. By the time they reached Morag’s flat it was tea-time; they were offered tea and home-made shortbread, which neither of them was able to resist.

Callie felt that Morag was a bit constrained, with Brian there, and wasn’t particularly forthcoming about any new
developments
with the family. ‘I’ll be back soon,’ she promised Morag as they took their leave of her.

It was their last call of the day. Walking briskly back towards the church, Callie reflected that she’d never seen Brian move so fast. It was cold, but there seemed more to his uncharacteristic speed than that.

‘Did I tell you,’ he enlightened her, ‘that my sons are home? Home for the holidays.’

‘That’s nice. The term’s finished, then.’

‘You’ll have to meet them,’ Brian said, adding, ‘Simon’s brought his girlfriend with him. Ellie. She’s a lovely girl.’

‘I didn’t know he had a girlfriend.’

‘Neither did I.’ Brian produced an indulgent chuckle. ‘He surprised us all. But she’s a real cracker.’

Callie couldn’t help wondering whether Jane felt quite the same way.

The flat was empty, as usual, when Alex got home from school. She dropped her rucksack just inside of the front door, threw her coat on the floor, and headed straight for her room.

The computer screen was black. Blank! No screen saver, no password prompt. Alex howled in frustration and pushed the restart button.

Nothing happened.

She looked under the desk and saw that the computer was unplugged.

The cleaning lady must have done it. To plug in the hoover. It wouldn’t be the first time.

She’d told Jilly a million times to leave her room alone. She’d begged her to tell the cleaning lady. Why couldn’t they just follow one simple request?

Alex crawled under the desk and shoved the plug into the power point, then shimmied back out again and punched the restart button. In a moment the screen sprang to life.

E-mail. That was the thing.

Yes! There was a message from Jack.

Eagerly she clicked on it to open it.

Alex drew a shuddering breath and hunched over the
keyboard
to reply.